


Haunted

by flyiing_giraffe



Series: After [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyiing_giraffe/pseuds/flyiing_giraffe
Summary: Crocodile dies. And then, he wakes up again.But this world is not his own, and he is not the man he once was. Familiar people abound, but most do not remember him-- and those who do are usually less than thrilled to see him. It seems that even dying and being reborn cannot absolve him.So he runs and hides from the world, staying as far as he can from anything that would remind him of what he has lost. Subsumed in the monotony of everyday life, time seems to stop.Until one day, on the way home from work, he meets someone familiar, and the world starts to move again.Content warnings are included at the beginning of each chapter. The story is finished and will be posted as I complete edits on each chapter.
Relationships: Crocodile/Donquixote Doflamingo
Series: After [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164977
Comments: 42
Kudos: 58





	1. The Same Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crocodile walks home from work through the park and meets someone unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: smoking, alcohol, homelessness, casual ableism (characters refer to themselves/others as crazy).

_ “He and I are closer than friends. We are enemies linked together. The same sin binds us.” _

-Oscar Wilde,  _ An Ideal Husband,  _ Act II

* * *

Crocodile gets off the bus, loosening his tie and rolling up his shirtsleeves. He smells like smoke and alcohol-- some customer who was too drunk to stand spilled beer all over him. Honestly, they don’t pay him enough for the shit he has to put up with.

He begins the walk back to his apartment through the severely neglected public park that borders it. A couple of people are playing chess at one of the tables and a few teenagers are smoking on the jungle gym, but other than them, the park is mostly deserted. Crocodile skirts something that is possibly vomit and walks down one of the side paths, poorly maintained and covered by trees. There usually aren’t any people here; Crocodile prefers it for the peaceful alternative it offers to the main thoroughfare. 

About a quarter of the way down the path, there’s an old bench. Some of the wooden slats that make up the backrest are broken, and its seat is covered in the black spotting indicative of old gum. It’s usually empty for these reasons, but today someone is sitting there. 

Crocodile glances at them briefly, looks away. Then stops walking. Looks back.

They’re incredibly tall-- at least 7’5”. They’re wearing bedraggled flats, a pair of bright pink leopard patterned leggings, a red and white sequined shirt, and a ragged pink coat that looks like it’s made of faux fur. Partially visible on their chest is a tattoo of a familiar Jolly Roger. 

They’re turned away from him, but it doesn’t really matter. Crocodile knows who this is.

He sits down next to them on the bench. He is ignored, the person continuing to stare off into the trees and smoke their cigarette.

“Donquixote?” He says, quietly enough to be dismissed if he’s somehow wrong.

The person whips their head around to face Crocodile, eyes wide behind cheap, pink sunglasses. They blink, looking Crocodile over. They offer a crooked smile.

“Wani?”

Crocodile nods and leans back against the bench.

So it  _ is _ him. He looks… different. Worse. He’s clearly been living outside, judging by the state of his hair and clothes. He has nowhere near his former physique-- Crocodile can see the jut of his collar bone, the ribs pressing against his skin. The bones of his face are too sharp, his eyes too sunken; Crocodile wonders about the last time he ate.

_ Donquixote sits in the frame of a huge window, a cruel grin on his face as he toys with some marine. He is massive enough to fill the whole space, were he to stand, and only fits horizontally by bending his legs and leaning his back against one of the sides. _

“Do you have any more of those?” He asks, gesturing to the cigarette. Donquixote reaches down to a dirty pink duffle bag sitting between his feet to retrieve a carton, which he tosses to Crocodile.

“Keep it. They don’t smell right.”

Crocodile doesn’t know why Donquixote would be picky about the  _ smell _ , of all things, but nods his thanks and lights up. 

This close, Crocodile can see that Donquixote’s torso is veritably covered in tattoos of things from the other place; symbols and fragments of maps, devil fruits, ships, a sea king. He’s essentially made himself into a giant neon sign for people who remember.

“Have you met anyone? From before?”

Donquixote nods.

“Plenty. Some who knew, some who didn’t. You?”

_ A woman walks up to him, a white cowboy hat shading her eyes from the harsh sun. She smiles enigmatically and tells him she can help him find what he’s looking for. _

“A few. A woman who used to work for me.”

Donquixote raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“Nico Robin.”

“Oh,  _ that _ one,” he wrinkles his nose, as though he has smelled something unpleasant, “Does she know?”

“She does. She wanted to see if I was keeping out of trouble.”

“And?” He smiles. In this life, it is so much wearier, “Are you?”

_ The rush of battle, the desperate knowledge that he is outmatched, and the final, searing pain ending in the reprieve of death. _

“I’ve had enough of trouble.”

“Fair. What do you do instead?”

He smiles crookedly.

“Manage a casino.”

Donquixote laughs, low and wheezing. It ends in a cough.

“Couldn’t stay away entirely, I see,” he teases, shaking the ash from his cigarette before returning it to his mouth.

“It’s… a good reminder.” 

_ He sits in his office at Rain Dinners, filled with the scent of cigars and expensive whiskey, surrounded by the mesmerizing blue of the water and his beloved pets. Below him, the rabble gamble away their earnings into his pockets to make themselves feel something. _

“It seems you understand the desire well enough,” he says, indicating Doflamingo’s tattoos.

Donquixote looks down at his hands, traces the tiny symbols of the card suites that run up the pointer finger of the right one.

“You could say that,” he concedes eventually.

They sit in silence for a while, smoking. The sun sinks slowly, the waning light filtering through the protective grove of trees and casting shadows over them.

“What do you do, instead of making trouble?” Crocodile asks, for want of something to say.

Doflamingo looks at him incredulously, as if he’s said something foolish.

“Whatever I need to. Whatever pays.”

He nods. He supposes it was a rather obvious, after all. A breeze ruffles the trees, and Donquixote shivers and pulls his coat tighter around himself.

“It’s getting late. Shouldn’t you go home?” 

“I suppose. Do you--” he clears his throat, not entirely comfortable with what he’s about to ask, “Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?”

“The great outdoors, I expect,” he shrugs, dropping the cigarette butt on the ground, “Or a hotel, if I’m lucky. Jail, if I’m not.”

“How do you feel about pull-out couches?”

Donquixote narrows his eyes at Crocodile, his sunglasses not quite opaque enough to hide it.

“What do you want for it?”

“Your time. A conversation, perhaps,” Crocodile crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, “I haven’t spoken to anyone who remembered in quite a while. I think we may… have some experiences in common.”

In truth, he’s felt… adrift. Alone. There is no one he can speak to; anyone who remembers would naturally condemn him, and everyone else seems… hollow to him. Lacking depth. But maybe. Maybe this time is different. Maybe Doflamingo is the answer.

For a minute, Donquixote doesn’t say anything. Then, he reaches down, picks up the duffle bag, and stands up.

Crocodile follows suit, crushing the remains of the cigarette under his heel.

He has underestimated Doflamingo’s height; Crocodile is a very respectable 6’7”; Doflamingo must be at least a foot taller.

“Alright. Thanks, Croco.”

Crocodile nods, beginning to walk again. He pulls out his phone to order Chinese; since Donquixote is clearly hungry, he won’t subject him to microwave dinners.

“What do I call you here?” He asks, realizing there’s almost no way he has the same name.

“Dorian. But Doflamingo’s fine when no one’s around. And you?”

“Carlisle,” he answers, grimacing, “But I prefer Crocodile.”

Doflamingo nods, then giggles after a moment.

“Carlisle. Like that fucking vampire book?”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” Crocodile huffs, pushing Doflamingo’s shoulder, “I was born first.”

Donquixote cackles.

***

Crocodile unlocks his apartment door, throwing his keys and wallet on the table just inside the entrance. Doflamingo drops his bag on the floor.

“Shower?” He asks immediately. Crocodile shows him the bathroom, finding him a disposable razor and some of his old clothes to borrow.

Crocodile changes out of his work uniform, throwing everything in the washing machine to deal with later, although he can still smell the alcohol on himself. There’s a knock on the door, and he goes to pay for the food.

He eyes the dinner table covered in old junk mail, paperwork, newspapers, and unwashed cups. He opts for the coffee table instead, sitting down on the floor and turning on the TV while he waits. He flips channels for a minute, settling on “Jeopardy!”.

Doflamingo joins him a while later, looking considerably better but somewhat ridiculous in clothes that are much too short for him. He ties his hair back as he sits next to Crocodile.

“What is the Engarve Disaster?” he says, the host parroting him a moment later.

“Can I have some?” He asks, gesturing to the food laid out on the table.

Crocodile nods.

“Help yourself.”

Between them, they finish everything and guess a good two-thirds of the answers before the contestants. Doflamingo leans back against the couch, stretching his legs out under the table and crossing one over the other.

“Whiskey?” Crocodile offers, clearing the mess and heading for the kitchen.

“Please.”

Crocodile grabs some disposable cups and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s someone gave him, setting both on the table. Doflamingo pours each of them a generous amount.

Crocodile doesn’t know what to say exactly, so he opts to get as drunk as possible as quickly as he can.

“Hey,” Doflamingo says, after about thirty minutes of silence, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he says, turning the volume down.

“Do you miss it?”

Crocodile is still for a moment, staring into his drink. He sighs.

How does he answer that? How does he-- what could he say that would be sufficient?

He dreams of it, ceaselessly. It seems to echo throughout his days; he cannot let his mind drift too far, lest he fall back into it. He has to cling to this world, like a drowning man to a raft, though it rarely feels worth the effort.

This place is a greying husk; the sea and sky pale versions of what was, the people, the plants and animals-- everything, like a grotesque imitation of what came before.

And yet. There’s the matter of Alabasta. Of Impel Down, of Marineford. 

He misses that place; he longs for it, but thinking of it is like walking through a minefield.

“So much,” he says, “But…”

“Yes,” Donquixote says, still looking at the television, “The-- what happened there. What he did, there.”

Crocodile drinks.

“I won’t pretend I’m particularly virtuous now, but that was-- what h-- I did there was--”

“I know, yes,” Doflamingo picks up again, shifting agitatedly, “It’s s-- it’s so much, too much. I wouldn’t--  _ I  _ wouldn’t--”

“I know. I don’t understand how I could’ve-- but then, sometimes I can. And that’s…”

“Terrifying.”

“Yes.”

They look at each other for a moment. Doflamingo drops his gaze first, picking up the bottle to pour them each another glass. They go back to “Jeopardy!”. Crocodile hears the clock chime ten.

Something in Doflamingo’s duffle bag begins to make noise, startling them both for a moment. Doflamingo blinks and cocks his head, seemingly confused about what it is, before his eyes widen, and he stumbles to his feet with a muttered,

“Aw, fuck.”

Crocodile watches him rummage around in his bag until he finds a battered pink flip phone. It’s already stopped ringing, but Doflamingo opens it anyway and walks toward the kitchen saying,

“I need to call him back.”

Crocodile nods and turns the volume up, so he doesn’t overhear.

It’s not that he’s not curious, but he remembers what Donquixote is like when he’s drunk and angry. It’s not something he wants to deal with tonight.

It seems like it takes a while. Crocodile can hear the pitch of Doflamingo’s voice rising and falling; it sounds like he’s arguing with someone. When he comes back, he tosses the phone onto the table, grabs his neglected cup, and downs the whole thing before sprawling on the ground.

“Trouble?”

Doflamingo exhales noisily, then sits up to pour himself another drink.

“It was my brother. I call him every week.”

Crocodile’s eyebrows shoot up.

He had assumed that Doflamingo’s family was either dead or in some way estranged. Admittedly, he’s never known much about them, but it seemed the most logical reason for Donquixote’s situation.

“Does he-- is there some reason you can’t live with him?”

Doflamingo laughs, short and bitter.

“Do you know what I did to him?”

Crocodile shakes his head.

“I _ killed  _ him!” He bursts out, then turns away and seems to shrink, as though he expects retribution, “And my father. I killed them both.”

“And do they… know that?” Crocodile asks cautiously, aware he’s in dangerous territory.

“No,” he sighs, “they don’t remember. Small mercies, ey?”

“Yes, I suppose,” he concedes. But of course, the price of that is isolation, secrecy, knowing people would not--  _ should _ not-- treat you as they do in their ignorance.

“If that’s the case,” Crocodile says, fiddling with the remote, “why don’t you--”

“You know why!” Doflamingo growls, rounding on Crocodile, “You have to-- don’t you have anyone from before, who doesn’t know? Don’t you know how hard it is to-- to look at them?”

Crocodile looks down. He is denting the cup with his fingertips.

“Yes,” he says.

“Then, you-- don’t ask why I can’t go back.  _ You know why _ .”

Doflamingo hunches in on himself, pulling his knees up so he can rest his arms on them and determinedly staring at the TV.

So much for not dealing with this tonight.

“I apologize,” Crocodile says abruptly, “That was invasive. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine,” Donquixote snaps, waving him off, “I shouldn’t talk to you like that. Sorry.”

They lapse into silence. There seem to be an endless number of episodes of “Jeopardy!” Crocodile wonders if they mean to play it all night.

“You don’t need to--” he says, after a while, “You don’t owe me anything for having you over. I just wanted someone to talk to.”

Doflamingo snorts derisively.

“Yeah, and I’m being such a great conversationalist.”

“Well, you-- at least you understand. I don’t have to pretend around you, and you don’t look at me like-- like--”

_ He sees it in their faces, every time he confirms his identity; the disgust, the loathing. He cannot defend himself-- it is their right. The only armor which remains to him is to wrap himself in the old layers of disdain and condescension; to feign frigidity until it becomes the truth again. _

“Like  _ that _ , yeah. It’d be pretty hypocritical.”

The clock chimes twelve accusatorily. Crocodile has a shift tomorrow.

“I left, too,” Crocodile says, wanting to offer something, “because my father is-- was-- Whitebeard.”

“Ha!” Donquixote says, slapping the table, “I knew it! I couldn’t prove it, but I knew it.”

He drinks then turns to Crocodile.

“So, what’d he do?”

“Besides cut off my hand and slice my face in half?” He asks drily.

“ _ Shiiiit _ . He did that?”

Crocodile shrugs.

“I did attack him. And I’d already disavowed him, so I suppose it was fair. I do wish he’d done something less painful.

“Yeah, I bet,” Doflamingo chuckles, “Does he remember?”

“No. But the same cannot be said for his ‘sons.’”

Donquixote makes a face.

“So no going home for you, either, then?”

Crocodile shakes his head. 

“That fucking sucks. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs again. Goes to refill his glass and finds the bottle empty. Upon returning to the kitchen, he finds tequila and figures that’ll work. He pours them both more and sits down in front of the TV.

“I mean, I suppose we deserve it,” he says idly, picking up their previous conversation, “Considering…” he makes a vague hand gesture, “Considering. Do you think it’s meant that way? As a punishment?”

Donquixote laughs then takes a large swig of his drink and wipes sloppily at his mouth.

“Well, what else could it be? It’s just like-- fucking, like, a weird version of hell or something, right? Like, we can’t discuss it with anyone, or they think we’re insane, and we can’t talk to anyone who believes us because they all hate us. I would  _ literally  _ kill someone to be able to talk to a therapist who wouldn’t immediately tell me I’m hallucinating and lock me in a psychiatric ward.”

“That’s not--” Crocodile interrupts himself to take another drink, “That’s not possible. For us to be hallucinating, it’d have to be mass psy--psychogenic illness, and that’s not how it works. I checked.”

Donquixote giggles.

“You thought you were crazy too, then, huh? I was like fifteen years old googling common delusions or whatever the fuck, trying to figure out if anyone else had ever heard of fucking Raftel. God! God, what a fucking, um…” he trails off, tipping his head back onto the couch to stare at the ceiling. Crocodile contemplates trying to pour himself more alcohol and opts to drink straight from the bottle, passing it to Doflamingo when he’s done.

“Even if they knew, could you...um, I’m not sure I’d be able to...because of the-- when you meet someone, from there--”

“Yes!” Doflamingo exclaims excitedly, trying to sit up but listing back against the couch almost immediately, “Yes, the-- it’s so hard to like, stay here? Or something? Like it gets very, uh... “

“It’s too many memories.”

Doflamingo snaps his fingers and points in Crocodile’s general direction, then hands him back the tequila.

“That’s why it’s so... bad for me at my house. Or, it was when I left. I’ve been gone--” he takes a minute to stare at the ceiling, furrowing his brow in concentration, “ffff-- four years now. Yeah.”

Crocodile looks at him, confused.

“Wait, how old are you? You look, uh, like when you were a kid.”

“I mean like, I dunno. Cuz of before, but uh… maybe like… twenty? Has it been October yet?”

“Twenty!” Crocodile yells, accidentally spilling Tequila on himself as he straightens abruptly. Doflamingo giggles at him.

“You’re like a, a fucking baby!”

“Pfffffft, Croco, don’t be…” he waves his hand vaguely, “Don’t be like that. You’re like, not even that old, I bet.”

“ ‘m twenty-five.”

“See! That’s not old.”

“You’re not even allowed to have alcohol, though. You made me commit a crime,” Crocodile accuses crossly, taking another drink.

Doflamingo laughs wildly, collapsing forward and laying his head sideways on the table. Crocodile watches for a few minutes, amused. 

“You’re so funny, Croco. You-- We’ve done  _ so many crimes _ .”

“ _ Yeah _ , but I wanna do crimes on purpose.”

Doflamingo giggles, reaching for the bottle. Crocodile hands it to him.

“I missed you, Wani. You were always… you always made me laugh.”

“Everything made you laugh.”

“Yeah, but like… it wasn’t always funny, you know? I was laughing ‘cuz of… I dunno. We did that a lot. It freaked people out.”

Crocodile steals the bottle back from Doflamingo and finishes it off, letting it roll away across the floor.

“It’s gone,” he laments. The clock chimes and Crocodile tries to remember what time it is but can’t.

“Time is it?” He mutters. 

Doflamingo reaches blindly across the table for his phone, his head still resting on the surface. He flips it open.

“ ‘s two.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Crocodile groans, “I have work in the morning.”

“Oh, shit,” Doflamingo giggles, “You should sleep.”

“Don’t wanna move.”

“Me neither.”

They sit, staring at the ceiling for a while, “Jeopardy!”’s host continuing his relentless questioning in the background.

“Doflamingo?”

“Yeah?”

“You should stay here. With me,” Crocodile says, still staring at the popcorn ceiling, “‘til you get a job and stuff. I have money, and… you can sleep on the couch, or something. We’ll figure it out.”

Doflamingo doesn’t answer for a minute.

“You don’t gotta… feel bad for me, or whatever, Croco. It’s fine. I can take care of myself.”

“I  _ know that _ , but I…” 

He means to say something like  _ you shouldn’t have to,  _ or,  _ you’re too young _ , or,  _ I want you here, _ but he loses the thoughts to the soporific haze of alcohol.

“How about you just stay for… for a week or something? And you can get food and cut your hair and stuff. And then, if you wanna leave… I guess you can. Okay?”

He hears Donquixote shift, falling back against the couch. Crocodile turns his head, so they’re facing one another. He can see the little white spots of glue where Doflamingo’s sunglasses used to have rhinestones on them.

“Why are you… why, Wani?”

That’s a good question. He feels like it’s something to do with how they’re very similar, or that Doflamingo understands his life better than anyone else, or that he’s just missed having someone to actually talk to. But in the end, it’s sort of a vague desire, a persistent thought that he wants Doflamingo to stay. That he  _ needs _ him to stay.

“I don’t… I’m not really sure,” he admits, “but you remind me of… of the ocean. Of the sky.”

Doflamingo grins lopsidedly.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, not really. But you should… stay anyway. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, eyes already closed, “for the week.”

Crocodile nods, smiles contentedly, and drifts off to sleep, leaving the TV to play on through the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doffy is actually 7'9" or 236.22 cm
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter, please consider leaving a comment/kudos or visiting my Tumblr and reblogging the post for this chapter. My username is the same there as here. Also, I know the blog is basically empty, but feel free to come talk about One Piece with me over there =)
> 
> Tags will be updated as the fic progresses. It is finished and should be updated weekly as long as real life doesn't get in the way. This verse will probably include other works, as well, although that's TBD since I have a lot of WIPs sitting unfinished on my computer lol


	2. Refusals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crocodile and Doflamingo eat pancakes and try to ignore their problems. It doesn't work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: smoking
> 
> I actually think that's it?

_“We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”_

Crocodile checks the clock again. It’s three a.m.

Doffy has repeatedly told him that he shouldn’t wait up, but it’s become a habit. Once every few months someone attempts to mug Doflamingo on his way back from work or the gym. It’s ironic, really, because he rarely has anything of value with him besides his bartending tips. But people are desperate and hungry, and Doflamingo knows how to make himself appear more wealthy than he is, so perhaps they believe him an easy target-- a notion of which he is quick to disabuse them.

Crocodile returns to the novel; having absorbed little of the section, he begins it again.

_“We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin…”_

He yawns, leaning back against the couch.

_“We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind…”_

He closes his eyes.

_He walks among the endless expanse of the Alabastan Deserts; they sing to him of glory, of dreams fulfilled. A treasure lies beneath them, a weapon lost to the world. He reaches out, and the sand parts, revealing--_

The sound of the key in the lock startles him awake. He runs a hand over his face and retrieves his book from where it has fallen to the ground. Doflamingo enters, phone held between his shoulder and his ear, fresh from the gym.

“Yeah. Yeah. So, just use the same formula you used on the first one with the numbers from the second. Mhmmm. Mhmm. Okay, well, go to bed when you’re done, alright? Yeah. Goodnight.”

He hangs up the phone, setting the stilettos he’s carrying on the shoe rack and toeing off his sneakers. Doffy has more shoes than they have space for in the closet and front hallway combined, so they stay on the doormat.

“Croco!” He greets, throwing himself against the door so it will close all the way and he can lock it, “Why the fuck are you awake? You have work in like, six hours.”

Crocodile doesn’t bother answering, as they both know why. Instead, he points at the kitchen without looking up from his book, knowing Doffy won’t have eaten. A few minutes later he returns with a protein bar and sits down on the couch, which protests loudly. Crocodile honestly doesn’t know how Doflamingo’s continued to sleep on the thing for two years; the sleeper section has become progressively lumpier and sometimes refuses to fold out at all. But he never complains.

Doflamingo leans back for a moment, letting out a contented sigh. He opens his phone, messing around with something. Crocodile’s phone subsequently pings on the side table, and he looks at Doflamingo suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

“Go on,” he says, grinning rather mischievously.

Crocodile picks up the phone, abandoning his book on the couch between them. Doffy has texted him someone’s contact information. 

Bon!!!! 😀😍😎😘😈😇😆😛😜😼😻😚

It reads, and then several emojis that have turned into boxes on Crocodile’s phone. He looks up sharply.

“Is this--”

“Yup,” Doffy says, still smiling, “Met them on the bus.”

He’s been looking for Misters 1 and 2, rather fruitlessly, for several years. Of course, Doflamingo would be much easier for someone to identify; now that he has a source of income again, he’s continued to add to his tattoo collection. Crocodile personally likes the stylized Log Pose on his wrist.

Crocodile adds Bon to his phone, opening up a text thread. The cursor blinks up at him. He stares down at it, blankly.

What does he say? What can he say? Does Bon actually want to talk to him? It was technically Crocodile that had landed them in jail before, and they were friends with that Mugiwara brat, besides. He chews at his lower lip.

A hand settles on his shoulder and he startles, looking up at Doffy.

“They were really excited when I said I knew you,” he reassures quietly.

Crocodile nods. Looks away. He knows he’s being irrational, but there are just so many people who hate him. People he doesn’t even recall meeting before. It’s always a risk, talking to someone who remembers.

“Gonna shower,” Doffy says, turning away and heading for the bathroom.

“Yes, please avail yourself of the soap,” Crocodile snarks. Doffy throws his disgusting shirt at Crocodile’s head but misses. 

Crocodile looks back down at his phone.

_Bon Clay. How are you?_

He finally writes, sending it before he can second guess himself. He moves to set the phone down on the coffee table while he waits for a reply, but it immediately starts vibrating in his hand.

_ZERO-CHAN!!!!!!!!!_

He feels his nerves subside and smiles.

_The newly named Mr. 2 waltzes into Crocodile’s office, wearing something so outrageous it defies description. They put out their manicured hand and introduce themselves as Bentham. Crocodile congratulates them on their promotion and asks if they have a partner in mind. They smile._

_OMG I CANT BELIEVE ITS U !!!!!_

_IM SO EXCITED!!!_

_HOLD ON_

A notification pops up for a group chat with himself, Bon Clay, and a third, unknown number. 

_ITS TTLY ZERO-CHAN_

_I TOLD U IVA!!!_

Crocodile groans. Of course _Ivankov_ had to remember.

_He comes before the Queen unbowed. He hates to have to ask favors of anyone, but they are the only one who can do as he wants, the only one who can correct the mistakes of nature and reshape his body. They smile when he asks and say they’ll help, of course, but everything comes at a price, doesn’t it? Crocodile just has to answer a little question in exchange for Ivankov’s generous assistance._

His phone buzzes again.

_croco-boy?????_

He debates just not answering or telling Iva to fuck off. But Bon has always worshipped them, so in the end, he sighs and types something he thinks will pass as civil.

_Ivankov._

_aw darling arent u excited 2 see me?_

_I expected a better reception_ 💔😾

_Perhaps you shouldn’t have blackmailed me, then._

_OMG ZEEEEEERO-CHAN THAT WAS LITERALLY LIKE_

_A WHOLE ENTIRE LIFETIME AGO_

_STOOOOOOOOOOP_

_it got u out of prison didnt it?_

_So ungrateful! I think I may faint…_

_IVA NOOOOOOO_ 😲😭

Crocodile sighs and gets up to throw Doflamingo’s shirt in the washer, holding it pinched between two fingers. 

_I was just kidding! Im fine! Hee-Haw!_

_LMAAAAAAO XD_

_IVA U GOT ME THAT WAS SO GOOD_

Crocodile closes the lid then grabs the wrench they use to turn the knob on the washing machine. It broke last year-- the landlord keeps saying he’ll fix it but, predictably, hasn’t.

_Are you done being ridiculous?_

_I see youre still no fun croco-boy =P_

_but enough about us_

_u must tell us everything abt urself_

_OMG YEAH ZC !!!!_

_I MISSED U!! SO MUCH!!!_

_IVE BEEN LOOKING 4 U 4 LIKE_

_4EVER BASICALLY_

Crocodile smiles, glad to find he hasn’t been alone in his search. Glad to have been missed.

He goes and bangs on the bathroom door.

“Doflamingo.”

“Yeah?” Doffy shouts back, “What is it?”

“I want to run the washing machine. Are you almost finished?”

“Just go ahead. Hot water’s broken again, anyway.”

Crocodile groans and returns to the washer, punching the start button.

_I’ve been searching for you as well, Bon. Rather unsuccessfully, I admit. How lucky you happened to run into Doflamingo._

_we wouldve found u eventually anyway_

_your father thought u might be around here_

The pit drops out of Crocodile’s stomach.

_Why the fuck were you talking to my father?_

_*gasp* language croco-boy =P_

_HES WORRIED ABT U ZERO-CHAN_ 😭

HE MISSES U 

HE ASKED US TO FIND U AND MAKE SURE U WERE OK

_I don’t care. Don’t tell him you’ve spoken to me._

_Y NOT ??????_

_DID HE DO SOMETHING ???????_

_In this world? No._

_croco-boy surely ur not still mad about /that/_

_I am._

_thats ridiculous_

_Why? I think it’s entirely sensible. I seriously doubt you’d be willing to forgive someone who violently amputated your hand and permanently scarred your face._

_I mean if it were MY face thatd be a fucking crime against humanity_

_but like_

_idk ppl have forgiven u for what u did so like_

_you could at least think abt it_

Crocodile snorts derisively, making his way back over to the couch. He stretches his legs out, pushing lightly against the other armrest before remembering the thing came loose a week ago. It falls to the ground. He sighs and gets up, going to the kitchen to find the duct tape. 

_No, they haven’t. Trust me._

_that girl_

_IVA DONT. NOT TONIGHT._

_vivi_

_she does_

Crocodile’s hands still on the drawer. He stares at the screen.

There could hardly be anyone worse. Others might have hated him more, but the Nefertari girl was the one who had done something about it. He scowls, turning away to lean against the counter and type, fingers hitting the keys with more force than necessary.

_That’s ridiculous. She was lying._

_I DONT THINK SO_

_SHE WAS SUUUUUUPER NICE 2 ME EVEN THO I LIKE_

_HELPED KIDNAP HER DAD N STUFF_

_You recall she was capable of infiltrating BW, as well; she was probably deceiving you._

He grabs the tape, heading back into the living room and kneeling in front of the couch. He rips off a strip with his teeth and starts haphazardly reattaching the arm. 

_…….NO OFFENSE ZC BUT LIKE_

_U NVR RLY TALKED 2 UR EMPLOYEES?_

_IT WASNT THAT HARD 2 TRICK U_

_SHES A RLY BAD LIAR_

_Don’t tell her you know me._

_SIIIIIIIGH OK OK_

_W/E_

_BUT SHES LIKE ALWAYS @ THAT BAR WHERE MINGO-CHAN WORKS_

_SHES GONNA MEET HIM EVENTUALLY_

_Doflamingo won’t engage her. He wouldn’t do that to me._

The arm sags towards the ground again. Crocodile starts wrapping pieces of tape around from the back of the couch to give it a more stable anchor.

_hey cb_

_whats up with u guys anyway_

_What do you mean?_

_MINGO-CHAN SAID HES BEEN LIVING IN UR APT FOR 2!!! WHOLE!!! YEARS!!!_

_So? He needed a place to stay, and I offered. What’s so unusual about that?_

_….RLY?_

Doflamingo wanders out into the living room then, heading for the kitchen.

“Did that fall off again? Just leave it, it's not worth putting back. Stupid piece of junk. Want pancakes?”

“Sure,” Crocodile says absentmindedly, leaning his back up against the arm in an effort to get it to stay for at least a few minutes. He can hear the tape slowly peeling away from the fabric.

_Neither of you are making any sense._

_what bon-boy means to ask is are you fucking him_

Crocodile looks quickly towards the kitchen and is immensely grateful he hadn’t decided to call Bon. 

_No. And I don’t see how it’s any of your business, anyway._

_WAIT RLY?!?!_

_….U GUYS DIDN’T EVEN LIKE_

_HAVE AN AWK 1 NIGHT STAND U PROMISED NEVER TO TALK ABT AGAIN?????_

_NOTHING???_

_REALLY???????????_

_Of course not. Why would you even think that?_

_U TOLD ME HE WANTED 2 FUCK B4 !!_

That’s true. Doflamingo had always been rather irritatingly obvious with his affections in the other world. But he’s never made any advances like that here.

_Yes, but this is an entirely different situation. He’s just staying until he gets back on his feet._

_darling hes on his feet_

_hes waiting for you to get on your knees_

Crocodile mutes the conversation, silencing his phone and slamming it down against the floor. It continues to buzz-- messages from Bon Clay or Ivankov separately, maybe-- but he determinedly ignores it. 

He knows Ivankov was trying to rile him on purpose; that’s always how they’ve been. But it just feels so-- so _vulgar_. So cheap and base a way to describe them. It’s worth more than that. What they are, what they provide for each other is beyond some-- some brief physical desire. He needs-- they need each other. When things are difficult, when they are lost, they reach for one another. Like plants towards sunlight.

“Hey, the pancakes are--” Doffy says, walking into the living room with a full plate in each hand, “Everything okay?”

Crocodile looks up, realizing he’s been glaring at the floor as if it has offended him.

“What? Yes, fine.”

He moves to rise, but Doffy shakes his head, 

“No, stay. The table leg is coming loose again and I don’t wanna deal with it.”

Crocodile sighs as Doffy sits next to him, passing over a plate of pancakes. He nods his thanks.

“This whole fucking house is falling apart,” he grumbles, shoving a bite into his mouth. It has an… interesting flavor.

“What kind of pancakes are these?”

“Rosewater. What do you think?”

Crocodile shrugs.

“I don’t hate it.”

Doffy giggles then takes an enormous bite.

“So, how’d it go?” He asks, still chewing.

“As well as could be expected, I suppose. With Ivankov there.”

“From the Revolutionary Army? Didn’t know you knew them.”

“I needed their Devil Fruit, last time.”

“Oh, yeah. Hadn’t thought of that. Well, what’d y’all talk about?”

Crocodile doesn’t answer for a moment, instead cutting his pancakes into fourths.

“They gave me some news concerning my father and… other people. And they asked about you.”

“Me? Why? I barely even knew them before.”

“No, they had questions about you now.”

Doffy doesn’t answer him. Crocodile looks at him out of the corner of his eye, sees the sudden tension in his shoulders.

“They didn’t want anything,” he says gently, “They were just asking why you were here, with me.”

Doflamingo nods, still silent. He takes another bite of his pancakes.

“What did you say?” He asks, eventually.

He’s trying to gauge Crocodile’s reaction; get more information to moderate his own. Old habits.

“I told them you were just staying until you found your own place.”

“Hmm.”

Crocodile guesses that means it sounds as fake to him as it did to the others.

Doffy finishes his food and deposits the plate on the coffee table. He moves to the window, removing the piece of wood they use to keep it shut, and lights a cigarette.

The scent, somewhat soothing to Crocodile’s mind, slowly permeates the room. He leans back against the couch, feeling the arm give beneath his weight.

Something is bothering him about his talk with Bon Clay and Ivankov, besides the matter of Doflamingo. It is, of course, always upsetting to hear that Whitebeard persists in his attempts to contact Crocodile, though they have not spoken in nine years. But that is something he is always prepared, if displeased, to hear. 

The business with Nefertari Vivi, however. 

He had truly hoped that she would not remember. There is very little he would enjoy less than being confronted by her, for there is absolutely nothing he can say in his defense. Having to stand there and listen to such a tirade as he imagines she has for him sounds unbearably humiliating-- he is self-aware enough to admit that such castigation may be deserved, but that does not stop him from dreading it. And now that he knows she is here, and aware of their past, the confrontation seems nearly unavoidable. 

It is an unpleasant reminder that the world has continued to move, though he has done his level best to hide from it. Has secreted himself away in a slowly deteriorating apartment, with only Doflamingo for company, in the inevitably vain hope that the rest of the world would simply leave him alone. That Whitebeard would stop looking for him, that whatever vindictive force has trapped him here would stop sending phantoms after him to berate and upbraid him for actions of which he is no longer proud. 

Perhaps it was inevitable, though. One can only sail for so long, without the wind behind them.

He is startled from his thoughts by a package of cigarettes landing on the floor next to him.

“Still wrong?” He asks, handing Doffy his plate as he retrieves the other.

“Yeah. Can you move the table? Gonna put the bed down.”

Crocodile nods, shoving the table up against the wall and removing the throw pillows while Doflamingo puts the dishes in the sink. They lower the bed together when he returns, the elderly mechanisms screeching loudly in protest. Doflamingo reclines on the bed, feet dangling off the end. Crocodile sits on the edge.

“We should find a new apartment,” he says absently.

“Why? Nothing wrong with this one.”

Crocodile turns to look at him incredulously. Gestures to the arm of the couch, which is now halfway to the floor.

“Well, alright, it’s kind of falling apart,” he amends, “but it’s livable.”

“Surely--” Crocodile starts, then pauses, worrying the fraying edge of the blanket, “Surely we deserve better than ‘livable?’ We can afford better, now.”

“I mean, yeah, but like… it’s fine. We’re fine here, right?”

“I… I don’t know,” Crocodile says quietly.

“Well, we have food and water, and like, a roof. We’re safe. Mostly,” he corrects, at another glance from Crocodile, “Mostly safe. It’s not bad.”

“Granted. But it’s not-- we’re not-- we had better than ‘safe’, once. We had better than not starving or freezing to death. We had so much more than just-- just surviving. And I don’t-- are you satisfied with-- with this? Just this?”

Doffy shrugs.

“Satisfaction is relative. Besides, it’s not-- all that’s in the past. I don’t need-- want-- those things. I’m not-- I’m not him, anymore.”

Crocodile frowns.

“You are,” he contradicts, “we are. There’s no point denying it.”

“Maybe I’m not. How would _you_ know?” Doffy snaps, running an agitated hand through his hair, “How can you be sure--”

“Because we are _the same_!”

It comes out rather more loudly than Crocodile intends. He stops himself, taking a breath and repeating more quietly,

“You and I are _the same._ ”

They _have_ to be the same. Crocodile needs them to be-- desperately, completely. He needs Doffy here with him, in the same situation; he needs him because he understands and because Crocodile can look at him without dreading it, and Doffy will look back without disgust, and he can just-- just _relax_. Just rest. For a moment.

Doffy searches his face. 

“If we are,” he says quietly, holding Crocodile’s gaze, “Then what are you waiting for? You’ve been here longer than I have, in the same house, the same job. Why are you still here?”

“Because I…” Crocodile hesitates, disliking the vulnerability, “because I want to-- to feel like I did on that day again, when Roger died. When I left for the Grand Line; when I knew I would be King. I want Gustave’s deck under me, I want to smell that ocean, I want to feel-- to feel _moved_. And there’s nothing, nothing in this world like that. Not for me.”

Doffy is silent for a moment. He looks away from Crocodile.

“If there’s nothing like that here,” he says, an urgency to his voice, “if you’re waiting for something that will never come, then how can you keep going? How can you or I move forward if what we want—need—is something which can’t exist?”

“I don’t know,” Crocodile admits, “but it’s-- we _have_ to keep going. We have to try.”

“Do we?” He looks back up, eyes fierce, “If we can’t find what we need, what’s left to us but to be who we were again? Is it worth it to just live as some-- some shadow, some facsimile, of those people? To never be able to do anything differently than them, to just, just act out some pale imitation of every mistake and never have a choice—”

“We have a choice,” he says loudly, “We have a choice. We were-- are-- them but-- but they are also _dead_. They can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

Doffy’s eyes dim. He looks at Crocodile desolately, hopelessly. 

“I think you’re wrong.”

“Why?”

“Because I tried so, _so_ hard not to be him. I wanted so badly just to have a normal, boring life with my family—to not let what he did affect us. But I couldn’t.

“I would find myself so angry at them for every little mistake, but it wasn’t them I was upset with, and it wasn’t _my anger_ . I was mad at Rosi for betraying me, but he’s never betrayed me. I was mad at Mother and Father for ruining our lives, but they never ruined them. But every time, _every time_ something happened, I was back there. I was him. And I lost them, again, because I couldn’t stop being him-- because I couldn’t _not_ make that same fucking mistake.

“How do I stop him, Croco?” he asks, desperate, “How? I just wanna—I wanna be free of _that_ . Him. _Me_.”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Crocodile replies, helpless.

He’s never managed it, himself; never done better than shoving the thoughts away when they come to him. He wants what he had, still, and he wars with himself endlessly over it. It is wrong, he was cruel; he knows this. But still. He was a Royal Warlord; he dreamed of power and glory beyond any seen in a century, and still, the ambition lives in him, even here.

It comes to him, then-- the answer to Doflamingo’s question about why he has remained here. Why he puts up with the stove with only one working burner and the customers who shout at him drunkenly on a daily basis. 

It’s because wanting things, aiming for and demanding better, feels too much like who he was, and who he is afraid to be again. In trying to become another person, to hide from himself and the rest of this world, he had stripped himself of everything that he had been.

But maybe it hadn’t been necessary. There is merit in ambition, in cunning and ingenuity and perseverance, which he had-- has-- in abundance. There were things in him worth keeping.

“I understand what you-- what you want, I suppose. I have wanted it, too,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “however, I… I don’t think it serves us, to-- to refuse ourselves for fear of who we were. I think that we can create a better life here, without abandoning them entirely. The antidote is to _live_ ; to build something meaningful. And I…” he falters, looking over at the coffee table, “I would like to build it with you. If you’ll permit it.”

He desperately wants to-- he finds he can’t imagine it without Doflamingo, in fact.

Doffy doesn’t answer for a while, continuing to stare pensively at the ceiling. Crocodile shifts anxiously on the bed, putting more of his weight on it. 

And then the leg breaks and he crashes to the ground.

He’s not hurt, really, just shocked. He lies there, perturbed, for a moment. And then Doffy starts laughing.

“Oh my god--” he gasps, “Oh my god, Croco, are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m sorry it’s just so-- so ridiculous. Oh my god.”

He keeps laughing, and Crocodile finds himself joining him.

It _is_ ridiculous; the window, the washing machine, the stove, the couch, the door, the refrigerator that won’t close unless you slam it. It’s absurd that they’ve put up with it for _so long_ , that they’ve trapped themselves here out of fear of what’s to come. For _no reason_. 

Doffy stands, reaching out a hand to pull Crocodile to his feet. He’s still smiling, wiping tears from his face with his free hand.

“I’ll look for a new place while you’re at work,” he promises. 

The sun has already started invading the room. Crocodile hasn’t slept, and he’s expected at work in four hours. He needs to shower, and there’s no hot water, and he’s forgotten to put the laundry in the dryer, and still, against all of that, he feels-- he feels so much _lighter_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote 8 pgs of this chapter in 1 1/2 days and I'm never looking at it again  
> I'm so fucking tired and I have a job interview in the morning lmaaaaaaaaoo
> 
> The quote is again from the inimitable Oscar Wilde, from The Picture of Dorian Gray.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a comment/kudos, or going to my tumblr (flyiing-giraffe.tumblr.com) and reblogging the chapter post. Please also feel free to ask questions there if you prefer-- anon should be on. 
> 
> Next chapter will probably go up next Monday, but I'm not going to promise bc I haven't started revision on it yet and I already know there's a bunch of shit I wanna fix so... sometime next week, for sure. Hope to see y'all then!


	3. Little Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crocodile and Doffy pay a long-overdue visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: smoking, drinking, casually ableist language, family stuff (I know this is vague but I just mean like... if you're going through it with your family, watch out), !!!!!Discussion of past suicidal ideation (starts at "My parents-- they were so worried..." ends at "But, of course, I hurt them..." Please be careful and take care of yourselves! If you want to know what happens in the conversation please let me know and I will summarize it for you).
> 
> This chapter is nearly double the length of the others lol

The late afternoon sun streams through the passenger side window; Crocodile pulls the shade over to make the inside of the car more bearable. He watches Doflamingo drum his fingers on the steering wheel of their used sedan, bouncing his left leg up and down. 

Last week was Doflamingo’s brother’s birthday. As he does every year, Doflamingo called him to wish him well and tell him his present was in the mail. Doflamingo’s brother asked-- as  _ he _ does every year-- for Doffy to come home, a request which he refused. It had seemed a relatively normal conversation with an expected outcome. But two days later, his brother had called back so distraught that Crocodile could hear him on the other side of their apartment. He and Doffy had argued for hours, and in the end, Doflamingo had capitulated, which is why they are now on their way to Doflamingo’s parents’ house for dinner. 

There was never really a question of whether or not Crocodile would come; when Doflamingo had knocked on his door, looking exhausted and defeated, Crocodile had simply asked when they were going. The whole situation sounds like a complete nightmare for Doffy-- not something Crocodile would be willing to let him walk into alone. 

“Remember, my brother’s name is Rosaire,” Doflamingo says, for the eleventh time today, “And my father is Noble. And--”

“And your mother is Dulce, yes, I’m aware.”

“Sorry. I’m just…”

“I know.”

Crocodile reaches out, putting a hand on Doffy’s shoulder briefly. He flashes a quick, exhausted smile in Crocodile’s direction.

Crocodile suspects he hasn’t been sleeping well the last few days. He was still up when Crocodile went to work yesterday, and his bedroom light was on when Crocodile came back. 

“It’s going to be fine,” he reassures, although more from hope than certainty.

Honestly, he’s unsure if this is a good idea; Doffy certainly wouldn’t have decided to return if Rosaire hìad not intervened, and Crocodile fears the fallout of such a hastily-arranged reunion. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Doflamingo says, voice lacking conviction, “Just—hey, um, I forgot to ask, but how should I introduce you?”

Crocodile frowns, confused.

“With my name, I expect. I hope you haven’t forgotten it.”

“ _ No _ , Wani, I mean… should I say you’re my friend, or my roommate, or what?”

Another brief, nervous glance in Crocodile’s direction.

“Ah. Well,” Crocodile falls back into the seat, crossing his arms over his chest, “however you like, I suppose. Whatever makes you… comfortable.”

“Hmm.”

Doflamingo stares fixedly at the road, even when they reach a red light, fingers like a vice on the wheel. Crocodile watches him.

It’s a good question. What are they?

Crocodile certainly finds him… necessary. Important. He feels better with him, as though the world is more real. He is the mooring that keeps Crocodile from drifting. He needs him. And he wants…

Well, that’s the issue, isn’t it? What do they want, exactly? They’ve never discussed it. Too delicate a subject.

Crocodile would not describe them as ‘friends.’ It feels inaccurate because while Crocodile will admit to enjoying the company of his friends, he has never  _ needed  _ any of them. It’s not even romantic or carnal at this point (as he has repeatedly informed Bon and Ivankov). It’s just… they’ve grown together. Their roots are intertwined.

The light reflects off Doflamingo’s sunglasses. They are rose-tinted with gold frames; Crocodile gifted them to him on his last birthday, half-jokingly. But Doffy wears them near constantly. 

They flatter his face, admittedly; in this life, it is slightly thinner and more angular. Crocodile likes that-- the subtle differences he can see on Doflamingo; his freckles and the shape of his nose and how his shoulders aren’t quite as broad. His voice is less nasal; he doesn’t eat lobster anymore. Those kinds of changes are difficult to perceive in oneself, but Doffy’s remind him of this world’s tangibility; that they are new images overlaying the old and not merely bad copies.

They pull up in front of a frankly enormous house-- not quite as big as Whitebeard’s main one, but certainly much too large for the three people inhabiting it. It seems vaguely Spanish in design, white, with terracotta roof tiles. Arches and windows abound, as well as at least three balconies Crocodile can see from the front. Their car looks comically out of place on the huge, circular driveway with a fountain in its center. 

Doffy parks somewhat haphazardly, and they both get out. He bends over, adjusting his hair in the side view mirror. Crocodile comes over to him, gripping his forearm gently. Doffy looks at him. This close, Crocodile can see the dark circles under his eyes, carefully concealed by makeup and sunglasses.

“It’s going to be  _ fine _ ,” he reiterates.

Doflamingo nods. Bites his lip.

The house’s massive front doors are flung wide so violently that one door handle hits the outside wall. A gangly blonde teenager immediately trips down the steps, nearly falling on his face, catching himself on his hands at the last second. He gets back up immediately and runs full tilt into Doflamingo, who grabs him up in a fierce hug, swinging him around while laughing. And, oh, Crocodile does not believe he has ever seen Doflamingo quite this happy; has never seen him smile like  _ that _ , certainly. 

He is breathtaking in his joy.

“ _ Rosi _ ,” he finally says, putting his brother down, and placing hands on his shoulders, “How are you? God, you’re so tall!” He shakes his brother slightly, grinning all the while.

“I’m--I’m good. Dori, I’m--I’m fine, I-- you’re  _ home _ .”

Crocodile can hear the tears clogging Rosaire’s voice. He hugs Doffy again, and Crocodile turns away from them, wanting to afford them a little privacy. He looks back up at the entrance, where Doffy’s parents are standing. Noble has his arm around Dulce, who is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Crocodile steels himself and decides he’ll save Doflamingo the trouble of introductions, walking up to the door wearing the most charming smile he can muster. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Dalì, I presume?” He asks, extending his hand, “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Carlisle Newgate, a friend of your son’s.”

Mr. DalÌ shakes his hand firmly, smiling in a somewhat distracted way; his gaze keeps flicking between his wife and his sons.

He’s nowhere near as tall as either of his children. He’s a thin, awkward-looking man with short blonde hair and pale blue eyes; he’s ‘dressed down’ in the manner of rich people, which is to say in a monocolored dress shirt and slacks made of materials much too fine for any average person to afford.

“Call me Noble. Nice to meet you.”

“And you must call me Dulce, of course. Please excuse me, I’m a bit overwhelmed at the moment,” the woman says, nodding at Crocodile in greeting and wiping at her eyes with the handkerchief.

She is slighter than her husband, her hair so blonde it’s almost white. The years look well on her; Crocodile finds himself hoping idly that Doffy will wear them as gracefully. She has kind, reddish-brown eyes and Doflamingo’s long, elegant hands.

“It’s completely understandable,” he assures, “Dorian mentioned he hasn’t returned home in some time.”

“It’s been seven and a half  _ years _ ,” she says, ducking her head as her eyes well up again, “I’m so sorry, please give me a moment.” She flees into the house, disappearing down a hallway to the right side of the foyer.

“You’ll pardon me, as well, I hope,” Noble says, already turning to hurry after his wife.

_ “My father was always trailing after my mother. He almost never left her bedside the whole time she was dying.” _

Some things, it seems, are constant beyond the cage of a lifetime.

Doffy and Rosaire come over to the steps, the former with his arm slung over his brother’s shoulder.

“Rosi, this is Carlisle. Carlisle, Rosi.”

“Nice to meet you,” Crocodile offers his hand; Rosi shakes it awkwardly.

He has the family’s signature blonde hair, his mother’s eyes, and the sort of gangly awkwardness of someone who has recently experienced a growth spurt and hasn’t quite adjusted yet. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Rosi replies, sounding somewhat robotic, then, “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself back there. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I just, um—”

“No need for apologies. It’s quite understandable,” Crocodile waves him off, “Dorian, you might want to see to your parents. They were somewhat… overwrought.”

“Oh, yeah,” Doffy fiddles with his glasses, removing his hand from around Rosi’s shoulder. He clears his throat.

“Ro, why don’t you go on and show Carlisle the living room? I’ll talk to Mother and Father, and then we can leave for dinner.”

“Oh, uh,” Rosi makes a face like he’s smelled something terrible, “We’re not-- Mom made dinner.”

Doffy turns to him, looking vaguely horrified.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“No. Unfortunately.”

“Oh my god,” he turns to Carlisle, “I’m so sorry. Listen-- try not to eat too much of it. It  _ will _ give you food poisoning.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“She’s just-- like, I love her, but she’s a terrible cook. I don’t know why they didn’t just have the chef over if they wanted to eat in.”

“She wanted to do it herself. So it’d be special, you know. For you,” Rosi says quietly.

“Yeah, I--” Doffy cuts himself off with a sigh, “I know. It’s-- I mean, it’s a nice-- nice thought. Anyway, Rosi, show Carlisle inside, and we’ll all be down in a second. Yeah.”

He shifts uncomfortably.

“Okay, um,” Rosi says, stepping forward a bit and turning to Crocodile, “right this way Mr., uh..?”

Doffy cackles, returning his hand briefly to Rosi’s shoulder, “It’s Newgate, but don’t call him that unless you want him to bite your head off. Thanks, I’ll just be a minute.”

With that, Doflamingo disappears down the same hallway as his parents, leaving Crocodile and Rosaire in awkward silence.

“Well, um, it’s just this way, so if you wanna follow me?”

Crocodile nods assent, and they make their way down a hall into a lavishly decorated parlor containing the sort of furniture one hesitates to sit on for fear of damaging it.

“Um, do you want anything to drink?” Rosi seems to be a nervous fidgeter, shifting from foot to foot and playing with the hems of his sleeves.

“Water would be lovely, thank you.” Honestly, he’d rather have whiskey, but someone needs to drive back, and Crocodile has graciously decided to abstain in case Doffy needs alcohol to make it through the evening.

Rosi returns with his glass, setting it on the coffee table and sitting on the couch across from Crocodile, still visibly nervous.

“So, um, you’re-- you live with Dori, um, I mean Dorian?”

“We’re roommates, yes.” 

Rosaire pauses, continuing to fidget. He keeps looking up at Crocodile, opening his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then giving up. Crocodile sits quietly.

“He said… well, he said you found him, somewhere. He wouldn’t say where,” he says, rushing through the sentence. His eyes are fixed determinedly on a window to his right.

“I did,” Crocodile replies slowly, “Although, the arrangement is very much equal if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“No, um. I just, I. I wanted to say thank you. For helping him. I know he wasn’t… he didn’t have anywhere to stay—or, well, where he would stay-- before he met you.”

Crocodile smiles gently.

“You’re very welcome. He just needed a… safe harbor, if you will. I was happy to provide it.”

It’s not something he would necessarily say in front of Doffy-- the phrase means something different to them-- “safe harbor.” In this world, it simply indicates a refuge. But before, when they could spend months at sea at the mercy of the Grand Line’s capricious weather patterns, not knowing if they’d run out of food or if the next port would welcome pirates, it meant something else. There is an enormous relief associated with the phrase; Crocodile knows Doffy would have the same visceral reaction as he, has had experiences that make the idea so much more than the simple reality it conveys.

He wouldn’t want to presume on Doffy by using such a weighty phrase in a context where he might feel forced to agree, but for Crocodile’s part, it feels… right. It feels like the answer to what they are to each other. A sanctuary. A place to heal and restore oneself.

“He talks about you constantly, you know,” Crocodile offers, “How proud he is of you, how happy he is for you.”

“Really?” Rosi asks, pushing his hair behind his ear, “He’s-- he’s proud of me?”

“Well, of course,” Crocodile says, a bit confused, “From all I’ve heard, you are very accomplished. And he loves you; naturally, he is proud.”

“But if he-- if he lo--” Rosi balls his hands into fists and stares at his lap.

Crocodile is honestly rather surprised. He has spent countless hours listening to Doffy talk about how smart Rosi is, how kind he is, how accomplished he is, how successful Doffy knows he’ll be. He would have expected Doffy to be, if not quite so effusive to Rosi’s face, at least complimentary. 

“I don’t…” Rosaire begins to pick at the cuticles of his left hand, “I don’t mean to, um, pry, or anything, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I was wondering… he never told us why he left, or why he wouldn’t come back. Did he um… say anything about that? Did I… did we do something wrong?”

Crocodile sighs and wishes he had asked for alcohol.

That’s the problem with knowing about before. It was them, and it wasn’t. They did something wrong, but they also didn’t, and they don’t remember doing those things, anyway. So it’s about Doffy, but also it’s not; it’s about this great, grand sea that existed somewhere else and the things they did there that have poisoned their lives in this world.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, carefully, measuring each word before he speaks, “Dorian was simply having… a difficult time. He was experiencing a crisis that you cou-- that he  _ believed _ you couldn’t help with, and he thought it might… cause him to do or say unkind things to you. He wanted to protect you.”

“But we would’ve understood. We would’ve helped him!” Rosaire looks very fierce as he meets Crocodile’s eyes for the first time today, and Crocodile sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sure you would have. But it might not have been possible for him to-- to describe what was happening to him so that it was comprehensible. He was afraid that he would hurt you without him or anyone else being able to provide a satisfactory explanation as to why, and he wanted to avoid that. Very desperately.”

“But--But if we didn’t do anything, and he loves us, then why-- why couldn’t he trust us to help? Why didn’t he-- why-- weren’t we good enough?” 

Rosaire sounds as though he’s near tears again, and part of Crocodile begins to quietly panic at the idea of being trapped in a room with a hysterical Rosaire. 

“I—” Crocodile begins, struggling to come up with a satisfactory answer when whatever deity has trapped him in this hell takes pity on him, and Doffy walks into the room.

“Hey, guys. Everything going good?” He says, a distinctly fake cheer to his voice.

“Hey. Uh, yeah, um, we’re good. Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“Oh, they’ll be here in a second,” Doffy says, ruffling his brother’s hair as he makes a beeline for the well-stocked bar in the corner, 

“You want anything, Carlisle?”

“No, thank you.”

He pours himself a generous glass of wine and then sprawls on the couch at Crocodile’s side.

He’s tense. It’s in the way he’s holding himself; to anyone else, he’d seem fine, but Crocodile notices.

“So, Rosi, how’s school treating you? Going okay?” He asks, downing a good third of the alcohol.

“Um, it’s good, Dori. Got all A’s and a B last semester.”

“That’s great! Math still tripping you up, huh?”

“Yeah, um, I’m not much better at Calc than Algebra. Actually, I was wondering if-- if you have time after we eat, I was working on some practice problems for my SATs, and I was wondering if you could help?”

“You’re doing homework during the summer? Damn. Sucks. But, yeah, I’ll take a look for you.”

“Oh, good! I mean, that’s great, thanks!”

To Crocodile’s eye, Rosi seems much too excited about Doffy helping with math— rather, the prospect of spending time with his prodigal brother seems more likely. The strained smile Doffy offers Rosi suggests he’s guessed, as well.

Dulce and Noble come into the room then, Doffy’s mother looking perfectly put together. Crocodile rises to greet them, shaking Dulce’s hand.

“Please excuse me, Carlisle, it was terribly rude of me not to welcome you into our home,” she says, smiling warmly.

“Not at all. Rosaire has been a charming host.”

“Has he? What a pleasant surprise,” Dulce teases her son, who blushes.

“So, Carlisle Newgate, is it? What do you do?” Noble asks. He’s smiling, but it has a somewhat rigid quality that suggests to Crocodile this may be a kind of interrogation.

“Real estate,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his card case. He’s rather glad Doffy waited to visit until they’d both changed occupations; real estate investor and radio host are somewhat more palatable professions than casino manager and bartender to Doffy’s parents, he suspects.

“Your home is exquisite, incidentally.”

“Thank you so much, Carlisle,” Dulce beams, “Would you like something to drink? Noble can make us something.”

“He’s not having anything, Mother,” Doffy dismisses, “What d’you want, though? I can make it.”

“Oh, nonsense, Dori, you’re our guest.”

“Port, Father?” Doffy asks, ignoring her and going back to the bar, “Let me make you something, Mother. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Oh, well, if you insist, dear.”

Noble and Dulce take seats on the couch next to Rosi, bracketing him between them.

“So, Dori tells us you’re an old friend of his,” Dulce says, “Where did you meet?”

“It was at a school thing,” Doffy says, before Crocodile can come up with something, “don’t interrogate him, Mother, I told you we’re just friends.”

Doffy delivers his parents’ drinks, ignoring their protestations that they weren’t doing anything of the sort before sprawling back on the couch and taking another gulp of wine. 

There is quite obviously something wrong. Doffy rarely takes pains to hide how he feels, but he’s determinedly pretending to be interested in the banal and stifling small talk that his parents are engaging in; asking about work, talking about the weather and  _ traffic _ , of all things. While the Dalìs are distracted, Crocodile takes out his phone and discreetly texts Doffy. 

_ Are you alright? _

He sees Doffy pull out his phone and type something rapidly, still talking with his parents.

_ i mean kinda and also no lmaaaaaaao  _

_ ill tell u abt it l8r _

_ r sure u dont want anything 2 drink _

_ You look like you need it more, and someone has to drive us home. _

_ ur the best ilu  _ 💖💖💖

Doffy puts his phone away after that and, finished with his drink, heads back over to the bar to pour another.

“So, I heard you made dinner, Mother?” he says brightly, still with that same forced cheerfulness, “Should we eat now? Wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Dulce agrees. They move to a giant, formal dining room taken up by a table that almost spans its length. Consequently, no one sits close enough to anyone else to actually have a private conversation; the stilted continuation of the previous discussion is little better than the atrocious food. Crocodile does his part to keep things going but is frankly relieved when the dessert course is over. He’s about to follow Doflamingo and Rosi upstairs when Dulce calls him back.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind terribly helping with the dishes? Noble needs to attend to some things, and it’s much faster with two,” she requests, smiling sweetly at him.

This is undoubtedly a trap, but he can’t refuse without being unbearably rude, so Crocodile reluctantly agrees.

Crocodile volunteers to wash, since he expects Ms. Dalì is little better at dishes than cooking. They chat aimlessly for a few minutes before she turns to him, a determined look on her face.

“You’ll have to forgive me for my rudeness in asking you to help, but I do have a few things to say to you.”

“Of course,” Crocodile says, pausing while cleaning a knife to look over at her, “I suspected you might.”

“Yes, well, firstly, I must thank you, of course, for taking care of my darling little boy. We’ve just been worried to death over him since he left home; Noble’s developed all sorts of health problems, the poor dear, not to mention the toll it’s taken on sweet Rosaire,” she pauses there, staring intently down at the spoon she’s polishing before continuing, “It’s just been horrible. We are immensely grateful to you, of course, and if you ever need anything, you’ve only to ask.”

“That’s very kind of you, ma’am. I shall keep that in mind.”

“Oh, it’s Dulce, dear, none of that formality between us,” she smiles at him, genuinely, for what Crocodile suspects is the first time this evening.

“I wanted to ask you something about him if you don’t mind,” she says, tone carefully casual.

“Of course not,” Crocodile says, rinsing the knife and handing it to her, “I will do my best to answer you.”

“Thank you. I was just wondering… I know he’s living with you, now, and you mustn’t-- you mustn’t take this the wrong way, but I just want to know if he’s... well, is he-- is he alright? I mean, healthwise, and… when he left, he was just so-- so upset all the time, and, I mean, we tried therapy and psychiatry, and-- well, just none of it seemed to work, so I just--”

“There’s no need to explain. I understand entirely,” Crocodile interrupts, “I… believe he is.” 

He picks up a bowl and begins to scrub at it, trying to formulate an answer that will both satisfy Ms. Dalì and preserve Doflamingo’s privacy.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending he was well when we met,” he eventually continues, “But then, neither was I. And I think I-- we have managed to-- to assist one another, in that regard.”

“That’s--that’s-- I’m so glad,” she says, then sniffs and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, “Thank you for telling me, dear.”

“Of course,” Crocodile says, smiling. He turns to hand her the bowl, but she doesn’t take it.

“There’s one more thing,” she says.

Crocodile has never been given to speculation on where, exactly, Doflamingo had acquired the ability to terrify people out of their wits. He’s suddenly enlightened when Ms. Dalì glares at him, still smiling and continuing to dry what Crocodile now notices is a very long and dangerous-looking knife.

“Yes?” He says warily.

“Noble was very adamant I not mention this to you, so it’ll just be our little secret, alright?” She waits for Crocodile to nod and then continues, “Good. I want you to know that if you ever do anything to hurt Dorian, I will make your life an endless, living hell. I have a lot of money and a lot of time, and I’m perfectly willing to use those things in pursuit of utterly destroying you-- something I am very much capable of both getting away with and feeling no remorse over whatsoever. So don’t fuck it up, okay?” She says, still smiling at him.

Crocodile nods mutely, not quite able to think of anything to say in response.

“Wonderful! I just wanted to make sure we understood each other, where it concerns him. Oh, by the way, would you like me to make you some coffee when we finish up? Noble just bought this lovely imported stuff I’m quite eager to try, and Dori mentioned how much you like it.”

“That would be lovely, thank you M—Dulce,” he replies, on autopilot. Fortunately for him, Dulce continues chattering on about mundanities, so Crocodile isn’t forced to participate beyond occasional affirmations. Twenty minutes later, he finds himself holding a cup of coffee and being led by the arm towards the stairs as Dulce expounds about gardening.

“Ah, there you are, my dear. Might I have a word with Carlisle, if he doesn’t mind?” Noble says from behind them when they are approaching the foot of the stairs.

Crocodile takes a deep breath, not particularly enjoying being passed between family members like a football, and then turns around to face Noble, fixing a polite smile on his face.

“Of course, I’d be happy to speak with you.”

“Wonderful,” he says, gesturing down a hallway that adjoins the foyer, “If you’ll come with me.”

Crocodile follows Noble to a wood-paneled room that appears to be an old-fashioned study; the walls are lined with glass-fronted bookcases, and there’s a large, mahogany desk near a bank of windows. Noble leads Crocodile over to a small sitting area. He opens a side table drawer and pulls out a familiar kind of box.

“Would you like a cigar?”

“Please,” Crocodile says, genuinely eager. He mostly smokes cigarettes now, as they’re more convenient, and Doffy near-constantly has cast-offs for him, but he misses the indulgence.

Noble prepares one for each of them and pours himself a whiskey before taking a seat adjacent to Crocodile. They smoke and drink their respective beverages in silence for a few minutes, 

“I’d like to apologize if my wife was-- if she said anything that made you uncomfortable. She’s rather...overprotective. Especially of Dorian, you understand.”

Crocodile nods.

“It’s nothing to worry about, but thank you.”

“I expect you’ve found yourself a rather popular conversation partner this evening,” Noble says, smiling knowingly at Crocodile. 

He snorts.

“A popular interrogatee, rather.”

“I’m sorry for that, as well, then. You are our guest and should be treated with more courtesy. It’s just been very-- very hard for them. For us all. And Dorian has always been quite… reticent about his circumstances.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“I know he has not spoken to you or your wife in some time.”

“That would be one thing. I could-- I could live with that, though it wouldn’t have been enjoyable,” Noble sighs, runs a hand through his hair, “But he wouldn’t even tell Rosaire where he was or if he was safe. We didn’t know he had been homeless at all until he was already living with you.”

Crocodile doesn’t answer for a moment, surprised. He knew Doffy wasn’t particularly forthcoming with his family, but that was rather extreme-- surely he’d want them to know he was safe?

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last, “had I known, I--”

“No, no,” Noble waves his hand in a gesture very reminiscent of his son, “you couldn’t have done anything. I merely meant to offer some explanation for why we’re all so very… demanding today.”

“Well, thank you,” Crocodile says, ashing his cigar on the coffee table ashtray, “Was that all you meant to say, or did you also have a question for me?”

“I’m afraid I do,” Noble chuckles, eyes twinkling, “If you’ll indulge me.”

Crocodile nods.

“I just want to ask… do you think that he’s happy?”

Crocodile sits quietly for a moment, thinking of nights spent drinking and watching terrible sitcoms, visiting museums and gardens. Arguing about nothing, futilely attempting to keep their previous apartment together, eating at terrible restaurants in the middle of the night, drunk karaoke. The time their car broke down in the middle of the highway, and they pushed it two miles to a gas station.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “but I like to hope so.”

“Well,” Noble says, a little sadly, “That’ll have to be enough. Thank you.”

He stands, clapping his hands together,

“I expect he’ll be wondering where you are by now; why don’t I show you up to Rosaire’s room?”

Crocodile assents and finally makes it up the staircase, where they run into Doffy on his way back to the foyer.

“Carlisle! There you are! I was looking for you. Come with me a minute? I need your help.”

He links arms with Crocodile and starts walking them down a hallway without waiting for a response, giving his father an awkward half-wave as he does.

“Where are we going?” Crocodile demands, feeling somewhat impatient after being constantly dragged this way and that all evening.

“My old bedroom. Need to grab some stuff-- I thought you’d wanna see it.”

Crocodile is admittedly curious and makes no further protest as Doffy leads him down a series of convoluted hallways. He opens a door, which creaks from lack of use, and strides into a frankly enormous room. 

The furniture has been covered in white sheets, but the walls, plastered with posters, photographs, and drawings, remain visible. Crocodile walks over to inspect some of them while Doffy makes a beeline for the desk.

The posters mostly showcase an eclectic collection of folk, rock, and metal bands, interspersed with occasional pictures of extreme sports.

“Do you know how to snowboard?” He asks idly.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I used to snowboard, ski, skateboard, skydive, do gymnastics—I was really into stuff like that after I remembered.”

“Why?”

“Felt like flying. Or, close to it.”

“Hmm.” Crocodile walks over to where Doffy is shoving a bunch of notebooks and papers from the desk into an old messenger bag. He takes it without comment and holds it open so Doffy can grab more things at once.

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Did you draw these?” He gestures to the pictures tacked up haphazardly above the desk. They’re all of things from before, rendered in exquisite detail, some with diagrams explaining their functions. 

“Of course. Who did you think designed my tattoos?”

Crocodile pulls one off the wall; it’s a Sea King, the kind that looked like a snake. It winds across the page, each scale lovingly drawn and shaded.

“Impressive.”

Doffy shrugs noncommittally and pulls a drawer open, grabbing a handful of USB drives.

“I felt like it was important to-- to document it all, as best I could remember. As far as I knew, I was the only one in this world who had seen it.”

Doffy quickly removes the rest of the pictures from the wall and puts them in the bag. Crocodile folds the Sea King up and puts it in his pocket.

Apparently finished with the desk, he motions for Crocodile to follow him over to the massive four-poster bed. He kneels on the floor, rummaging around under it and pulling out some boxes. Crocodile looks up at the wall, where dozens of photographs are taped.

“Are these friends of yours?” He asks, reaching out his hand to run a finger over a faded picture of some kids at the beach, one of whom looks like a younger Doffy.

“What?” he looks up in the middle of sorting through one of the boxes, then stands when he sees what Crocodile is looking at, “Oh, yeah. Those were some kids I met at summer camp. We were really close.”

“And what happened to them? You haven’t introduced us.”

Doffy frowns.

“I don’t know. I stopped talking to them after I remembered.” He begins to pull the photos from the wall and hand them off to Crocodile, who looks through them.

There’s a lot of the Dalìs on vacation, fishing, swimming, climbing trees, and— surprisingly— at what looks like a soup kitchen.

“Did you-- are you--  _ volunteering  _ in this picture?”

Doffy laughs.

“Yeah! My parents used to take us to volunteer at like, homeless shelters and soup kitchens and stuff every weekend since we were old enough to understand what was going on.”

He gets up on the bed and pulls a photo from near the ceiling, blowing on it to dislodge the dust.

“Here’s us building a house for someone,” he says, handing the picture down to Crocodile. The family is all in matching blue shirts, faces smeared with dirt and sweat. They smile up at him.

“You look happy,” he comments, thinking of Noble.

“I was. It was actually fun to like, know you were helping and stuff. People were really grateful for it, like even if you were just nice to them or talked to them for a few minutes. I think my parents still might help at the soup kitchen. I stopped when… well, you know.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and Crocodile looks up from the picture to see him staring off into space.

“Doflamingo?”

“What, yeah? Sorry, Wani. Just thinking.” He jumps down from the bed, removing his glasses to wipe at his eyes quickly. 

“It’s dusty up there.”

“Hmm.”

Crocodile has his doubts about the veracity of that statement but allows Doffy the refuge of deceit.

Doffy finishes gathering the pictures and things from the boxes in silence. Crocodile closes the overflowing duffle bag as best he can as Doffy sprawls on the floor in front of the bed, exhaling loudly.

“I want a smoke. Join me?” He asks after a moment. Crocodile nods.

Doffy heads over to a set of double doors, producing a key and unlocking them. They walk out onto a balcony; a sun-bleached furniture set sits in one corner. Doffy takes a seat and lights up-- the cigarettes smell like they might be clove, this time.

“I’m sorry for making you witness this shitshow, Wani. Wouldn’t have asked you to come if I knew it’d be this awkward.” He says, after a few minutes of silence.

“I mean, it seems rather obvious. You haven’t been home in seven years.”

Crocodile holds out his hand for a cigarette, which Doffy hands over.

“Yeah, but like,” he gestures vaguely, “I just didn’t think Mother and Father would miss me that much, you know? Like, I was a really shitty kid after I remembered all that stuff. Bit of a brat before, too. But I just figured they’d be glad to get rid of me.”

Crocodile lights up and begins to smoke, thinking carefully about what to say next.

From what he’s seen, Doffy’s clearly lying. But saying that outright won’t do anything for the situation.

“I wouldn’t presume to say I know your family better than you after a single evening, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but they seem to love you very much.”

“I mean, yeah, they do. I know-- I know that, but I--” Doffy falls silent, leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Your brother asked me,” Crocodile says, after a few minutes of silence, “why you left. Why you didn’t come back.”

“You--You know why--”

“I’m sure that was part of it. But you stayed here for a year after you remembered, by my calculation. So it wasn’t so bad that you left immediately.”

Crocodile mimics his posture, smoking quietly. Giving Doffy space.

“No,” he admits, “No, I-- I didn’t want to leave. Because I knew it’d-- Rosi was little. And he was so hurt, anyway, that I didn’t want to hang out with him or talk to him as much. I was avoiding him. I knew that if I left, I would-- it would fuck him up.”

“But something changed.”

“Yes,” Doffy sighs heavily. He slides the cigarette carton over the table to Crocodile, who pockets it without comment.

“My parents-- they were so worried when it-- when I remembered. They took me to the hospital the day it happened, and like  _ so  _ many therapists,” he says, smiling melancholically at the memory, “they were always hovering. They wouldn’t leave me alone in the house, and they didn’t make me go to school. I think they thought-- they were worried I would kill myself if I was alone, or something.”

“Were they--”

“ _ Of course, _ they were right to be worried,” Doffy snorts, “I was thinking about it. I thought-- I thought I was in hell, alone with what I had done, surrounded by people who loved me but shouldn’t. I wanted-- I wanted to end everything  _ so badly _ . I figured there couldn’t be anything worse. What could happen-- they’d send me back again?”

“But you didn’t,” Crocodile prods gently.

“No, I… couldn’t. Rosi loved me. My parents loved me. Whether or not I deserved that, they did, and it would have  _ destroyed _ them.

“But, of course, I hurt them, anyway, when I left.”

Doffy slumps forward in his seat, resting his head on his folded arms. Crocodile reaches out and puts a hand on top of Doffy’s forearm. He smiles at Crocodile lopsidedly.

“I left  _ because _ they loved me. Because every time I looked at them, I could see their pride, their love, their hopes for me, and I had already failed them. Before I was born, I was already a person they could only ever be disappointed in; I was already rotted. I couldn’t stand to see how they cared for me when I knew I wasn’t worth it.”

Doffy blinks rapidly several times and inhales raggedly. Crocodile squeezes his arm.

They sit there quietly, the night growing blacker around them; the stars twinkling overhead.

“Hey,” Doffy says, eventually, “Do you want Pad Thai when we get home? I’m fucking starving.”

Crocodile chuckles.

“Sure.”

***

“You’re sure you won’t stay the night?” Dulce asks them as they’re getting ready to say goodbye on the porch, “It’s really no trouble. We have the guest rooms made up.”

“Sorry, Mother, we have work in the morning,” Doflamingo lies, “But, um. You guys still have Friday movie nights?”

“Yes!” Rosi volunteers.

“Then, uh, I could join you? If that works.”

“Oh, absolutely, dear,” Dulce assures, looking like she’s close to tears again, “You’re welcome any time.”

“Cool.”

He goes to hug his brother, and Crocodile turns to Dulce and Noble, inclining his head slightly.

“Thank you for your generous hospitality. It was a pleasure to meet you all.”

Dulce beams.

“And we were delighted to meet you, sweetie! Please come back whenever you like.”

Doflamingo hugs her as well, dwarfing her in his arms. When he comes to his father, he puts a hand out awkwardly.

“Well, Father, uh, thanks for—”

Noble cuts him off by throwing his arms around his son and pulling him into a hug. After a moment of shock, Doffy tentatively reciprocates. Noble says something Crocodile doesn’t catch, and Doffy nods.

Crocodile takes the driver’s side without comment, and the Dalì family waves to them as they drive off.

Doffy is uncharacteristically silent during the drive, but Crocodile suspects he has something more to say, so he doesn’t turn on the radio.

“When you and Rosi went to the drawing-room,” he begins abruptly at a stoplight, “I thought I’d just have to let my parents know I was okay, and like, I dunno, apologize for running off without warning. But I got over to them, and they…” He trails off. Crocodile looks over to see him staring fixedly out the window into the darkened streets.

“I’ve never seen my mom cry like that. She’s not usually that emotional. And I just asked what was wrong, you know, automatically, and my father like… blew up at me. He’s never done that before, either; it’s usually the reverse. And I just didn’t have a good argument or explanation for them that didn’t make me sound fucking crazy, so I just kind of… left. And went to follow you guys. And I heard you.

Crocodile sits, frozen. Unsure of what to say.

“Light’s green.”

He startles, turning back to the road and pressing the gas pedal hastily, although, fortunately, there isn’t anyone behind them.

“I didn’t come in because I was just having a hard—a bad time, for a second. The only time my father and I really yelled was before, when we were homeless. We used to fight all the time. So it just. I was falling back there a little bit. But then you were… talking about me, with Rosi, and about like, you being a safe harbor, for me. And I knew what you really meant. And I just focused on your voice, and it got better.

“I want to tell you… I-- you’re right. And thank you. For being that, for me.” 

Crocodile doesn’t say anything for a moment. Struggles for something meaningful, something that will help. Eventually, he reaches across the console very slowly and finds Doffy’s hand, covering it with his own. Doflamingo doesn’t move.

“You are, too,” Crocodile says softly. The lights pass overhead in bursts, creating an alternating pattern of light and darkness within the car, “For me. You are, too.”

Doflamingo doesn’t say anything else on the way home, but he turns his hand over, so their palms are touching, and twines their fingers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw u visit ur family  
> dang that was long and kinda hard to write but I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving kudos/commenting or going to my Tumblr (flyiing-giraffe) and reblogging the chapter post. I think I accidentally had asks turned off (oops) but I turned them back on if you want to comment/ask questions there.
> 
> The chapter title is from the song "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men. 
> 
> Since we have departed from Oscar Wilde and had the first music-related chapter, would anyone be interested in me linking the playlist that goes with this fic? I will do this with almost no provocation lol so someone include it in their comment if you wanna see it.
> 
> Thanks again! See you at the same time next week, probably-- next chapter will be shorter and somewhat lighter. I'm excited to share it with you!


	4. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crocodile and Doflamingo attend a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: smoking, drinking

Crocodile moves deftly through the throngs of people crowding the club, returning to the small table with his new whiskey and the refill Doffy had requested before promptly disappearing into the crowd. He sighs and takes a seat on the barstool, checking the time to see when he can reasonably leave.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and Crocodile would honestly prefer to be at home reading but Iva and Bon had invited them both to join in the festivities at the bar, and Doffy had enthusiastically accepted before Crocodile had a chance to object. He could have stayed home, of course, but he finds it hard to refuse Doffy his whims recently-- even when his ideas are truly atrocious.

And besides, they’ve been very stressed lately, with moving into their new house and Doffy switching radio stations. He will grant that they deserve a break-- although he would’ve picked something more sedate.

“Enjoying the show, Croco-boy?”

Crocodile scowls and turns to see Iva and Bon pulling barstools up to his table, quite without his permission. As they jointly own the place, however, he supposes he doesn’t have the right to complain about that. The noise, though.

“It’s too loud.”

“It’s a  _ club, _ honey, that’s the point,” Iva says drily, putting their rainbow slush concoction on the table.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Zero-chan,” Bon chides, settling their barstool on Crocodile’s right and throwing an arm around him. Which Crocodile tolerates because, well. It’s them.

They’re wearing a glittery blue and pink catsuit with a collar made of white feathers tonight. Crocodile shoves them away slightly when one of them ends up in his face.

“You don’t like my delightful Candies?” Iva pouts, fluttering their eyelashes. 

Crocodile turns slightly to observe the drag queen currently performing. He sees Doffy reaching out a hand to give the queen money; she bends over and kisses him on the cheek. He turns back abruptly.

“She’s adequate. Her wig could use some work.”

They both make scandalized noises.

“It’s true. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Impossible,” Bon Clay says, sipping at some glowing thing that probably contains enough alcohol to floor an elephant,

“But tell us how you’ve been! We haven’t seen you in aaaaaages.”

Crocodile raises an eyebrow.

“It’s been three weeks at most.”

“A lot can happen in three weeks. That is, I believe, around the same amount of time it took for Mugiwara-boy to completely disrupt all your plans and put you in prison,” Iva points out, smiling cheekily.

Crocodile glares at them.

“You don’t scare me, little alligator. Come now, tell us what you’ve been up to.”

He sighs.

“We moved.”

“What?” Bon screeches directly into Crocodile’s ear, making him wince, “and you didn’t tell us?”

“We were very busy,” Crocodile says, taking another sip of his drink. He’s just pleasantly buzzed enough to continue this conversation instead of pretending he has to go to the bathroom.

“Firstly,” Iva says, putting up one perfectly manicured finger, “I demand you send us your new address. We are coming over this week. Secondly, did you buy, or are you still renting?”

“Firstly,” Crocodile echoes, “no you are not. No one is coming over until the housewarming party. And secondly, we bought it. The market was excellent; it seemed an opportune time to acquire a house.”

“That’s a very serious commitment to make with a friend,” Iva says, wiggling their eyebrows.

“I suppose,” Crocodile says, refusing to give them an inch.

“Zeeeero-chan, you know what they mean,” Bon says shaking Crocodile slightly, “did you guys finally get your shit together?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _ Honestly _ , Croco-boy, you’re  _ impossible _ ,” Iva laments, putting a hand to their forehead, “I may faint from the suspense. Did you and Doffy-boy fuck, or not?”

Bon Clay cries out Iva’s name in distress, Crocodile opens his mouth to say something very rude, and just at that moment the topic of their discussion comes sauntering over to the table.

“Iva! Bon! How are you?” Doflamingo says, beaming. He settles his arms on the back of a chair and leans down, so his face is level with theirs.

“Wonderful Doffy-boy. Enjoying the party?” Iva asks, without a hint of shame for  _ just  _ prying into his private life behind his back.

“It’s fantastic, yeah! Love what you’ve done to the place. Much better than when I worked here. 

“Hey, Croco, catch.” 

Without looking, Doffy tosses Crocodile a box of cigarettes, which he catches. He pulls one out; Doffy leans over the table, opening the rose gold lighter that Crocodile gifted him, and lights the cigarette. Crocodile grabs his chin before he can retreat, scrubbing off the lipstick mark on his face with a napkin.

“Gonna have to take off pretty soon, unfortunately,” Doffy says when Crocodile is finished. He picks up his new drink, downing half of it, then rummages around in his coat for his phone.

“Aww, but Mingo-chan, we’re going to have a dance competition! I was hoping you’d join with me,” Bon says petulantly, crossing their arms over their chest.

“I’d love to, but I promised my parents I’d get over to their party before midnight. Raincheck?”

Bon pouts at him.

“I guess.”

“It’s not like you need me to win, anyway. Send pics of the trophy, will you?” He turns to Crocodile, still typing on his phone, “I’m not gonna make it back to the house tonight, so you’ll have the place to yourself, Croco. Have fun!” He shoots Crocodile a quick grin and a wink before returning to his phone.

“Sleeping?”

“No, old man,” he says, exasperated, “I mean like, I dunno. Bring someone home! Just make sure they’re not wandering around naked when I get back. Unless, you know, they’re really hot.” He smiles salaciously.

Crocodile’s expression does not change to reflect the…  _ unpleasantness  _ he feels when Doffy says that. He’s had a lot of practice. 

Over the last five years that Doffy’s lived with him, there’s almost constantly been a veritable parade of people in and out of Doflamingo’s proverbial bedroom; he goes through lovers like most people go through paper towels. It hadn’t bothered Crocodile, at first-- it was Doflamingo’s business, who he slept with-- but as time went on… well, frankly, he wishes Doffy would stop. But he can’t very well say that, now can he? Then Doffy might ask him why.

“Don’t be absurd,” he scoffs.

“I’m not!” Doffy protests, “You haven’t gotten laid in ages. Seriously, you should see if anyone catches your eye; I’m sure they’d be flattered. You look gorgeous tonight, you know.”

He looks up when he says it, smiling. The lights from the stage limn him. He’s wearing one of the most hideous outfits Crocodile’s ever seen, he’s covered in body glitter, and there’s still a smudge of lipstick on his cheek, and even so, Crocodile cannot say he’s seen anyone more beautiful in all his life. He finds himself unable to respond.

Doffy’s phone chirps.

“That’s my ride. See you later!” He chugs the rest of his drink, then walks away, putting up a hand in farewell as he’s swallowed by the crowd.

“Oh my gooooooood,” Bon moans, dropping their head to the table dramatically, “What the  _ fuck _ ! That was so fucking gay, oh my god. Seriously, this is painful to watch.”

“I agree.” Ivankov pulls the umbrella from their drink and points at Crocodile, “Now don’t bullshit us again. When are you going to talk to him about it?”

Crocodile crosses his arms over his chest.

“Never.”

Bon screeches in frustration and punches his shoulder.

“Why!”

Crocodile ashes his cigarette, buying time.

It is simple and complex, equally. Simply, he loves them as they are; he needs Doflamingo and vice versa; they make each other better. Crocodile would do anything in his power not to jeopardize that arrangement. But it’s also more complicated than that.

By increments, “he and I,” has become “we.” They do almost everything together-- they don’t even need to speak to one another half the time to communicate. Doflamingo knows his coffee order at  _ seven _ different shops; Crocodile knows his inseam measurement. It’s ridiculous, honestly—this has never happened to him, before or after. He dislikes contemplating the level of intimacy they’ve achieved; to acknowledge that someone knows him so completely is uncomfortable.

It feels wrong to him to make it romantic, somehow, like that will ruin what they have already built together. Crocodile has never given anyone so much of himself-- if he takes this risk and it goes poorly, what will be left of them to salvage? He feels that what they have now is beyond the inherent transience of love, beyond the boundaries of time. And he’s… afraid to alter that. To risk what he has with the only person in the world who is actually capable of understanding him in his entirety.

Crocodile shrugs.

“I can’t explain.”

Bon throws up their hands.

“Try,” Iva demands.

“It isn’t… necessary. For us.”

“I mean, fucking  _ duh _ ! Of course it isn’t  _ necessary _ !” Bon says frustratedly, “But you guys are like… fucking in love, or whatever! So you should do something!”

“Perhaps that is your attitude on the matter, but that’s simply not how I do things,” Crocodile says, getting rather annoyed with the whole conversation. It’s not their  _ business _ how he and Doffy choose to navigate their relationship.

“It’s a rare sort of thing, Crocodile,” Iva says, voice uncharacteristically gentle, “to find something like what you have with him. Trust me. I wouldn’t let it slip away so easily, were I you.”

They pick up their glass and stand.

“C’mon, Bon-boy, the show’s almost over and we have a speech to give,” they say, gesturing for Bon to follow them, “See you later, Croco-boy.”

Bon makes a face at him as they leave, and Crocodile rolls his eyes.

The performance ends, then Bon and Iva come on stage to give their speech about new beginnings, or something like that. Crocodile doesn’t listen. He gets another drink while everyone is distracted and lets the noise and bustle of the evening wash over him as he sits at his table alone.

Ivankov may have a point. He may be risking the greater potential of what they could become for fear of losing what they are. It’s possible something like that is worth taking that risk.

He can hardly imagine them that way, but he would give… so much to find out-- just not Doffy. 

But there’s no guarantee that would even be the case. It’s possible-- likely, even-- that Doflamingo desires the same thing, and that the outcome of asking would be favorable. So why won’t he try? He doesn’t entirely understand his own reservations in this. There’s no indication that a positive result is an impossibility, and though he’s never liked gambling, the odds are good. So what is keeping him from pursuing it?

When he considers it, he feels a certain kind of… dread. As though the logic and facts of the situation mean nothing, and that it will inevitably go wrong; as though it is preordained. It’s the same feeling he used to get when he thought about changing jobs or getting a new apartment, or anything similar; as though it was futile. Like there was no point in even trying because this is--

This is a punishment. His existence in this world is a punishment, and getting something he wants so badly is impossible.

“Sir Crocodile,” someone says behind him, startling him from his thoughts. 

He turns and suddenly feels as though he’s touched seastone.

_ A small child with bright, inquisitive eyes smiles up at him from near her father’s throne. He kneels to introduce himself to her and she giggles, ignorant of his purpose in her country. _

Nefertari Vivi.

It’s undoubtedly her, despite the minor changes in appearance; the long, blue hair falling in curls over dark skin, the piercing eyes, the way she carries herself. Crocodile could not mistake her.

“Princess,” he says, doing his level best not to betray his shock.

She doesn’t look angry, although it could be an act. She gestures to the empty seats at his table.

“Mind if I sit?”

“I can’t stop you,” he says warily, watching her. She takes the seat without saying anything else, eyes on the stage. Iva and Bon are just finishing their speech and announcing that the dance contest will soon begin. The lights go down, and the DJ begins to play another vapid pop song-- although thankfully quietly enough that Crocodile can still hear himself think.

“I saw you, earlier,” she says, without looking at him, “but I wasn’t sure if you’d know me. Still, I thought I’d see.”

So, Bon and Iva had kept their promise. Good. He’d hate to have to be annoyed with them.

“Was there something in particular you wanted?” He asks stiffly. Hopefully, she’ll get to the point and they can end this conversation.

She laughs, shifting in her chair so she’s more directly facing him. 

“Charming, as ever,” she says acerbically, “Not really. I mean, sort of, I guess.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t—I mean,” she leans back, twisting a strand of her hair around her finger, “I guess I just wanted to talk to you. See what you’re like now.”

Crocodile snorts derisively.

“Why?”

She glares at him.

_ The girl on the other side of the table launching herself at him with fury in her eyes; he laughs. She can’t touch him. _

“—didn’t need to call the police!”

He blinks. He hasn’t missed something someone said to him to his memories since… he actually can’t remember the last time that happened. It used to, rather frequently, when he was younger, but never in the last five years, at least. It’s unsettling

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” He asks, then takes another drink of his whiskey. He has a feeling he isn’t drunk enough for where this conversation is going.

“I _ said _ I was trying to make sure you weren’t taking over any more countries!”

“Oh,” he chuckles, amused by the thought, “No. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Well, good!” She huffs. She turns her attention to the dance floor, which is slowly beginning to fill with people.

“Do you… well, what do you do now, then? Instead of being a pirate, I mean?” She asks eventually.

He doesn’t answer for a moment, considering how the information might be used against him before deciding it’s safe enough.

“I’m a partner at a real estate firm. It’s exceptionally dull.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“Huh. That’s… more normal than I was expecting.”

“What, you thought I’d be some supervillain, cackling madly about poisoning the town water supply?” He says sarcastically, stabbing his cigarette out in the ashtray with perhaps a little more force than necessary. 

“Well, yeah, I guess I did!” She says, “I mean… I dunno, what else was I supposed to think? That you just gave up being evil?”

“Perhaps you might consider,” Crocodile says, trying very hard to keep calm, “that circumstance determines much of who we become, and that mine in this life would have necessarily been different.”

“Okay, then,” she turns to face him again, a determined look in her eyes, “If that’s true, do you regret it?”

Crocodile pauses to think. Drinks more whiskey.

It’s hard to say, really. Some days, he doesn’t. That world was one of taking-- he was merely doing what was natural there. Part of him is galled at the idea that he, a  _ pirate  _ and a  _ warlord _ , would regret any action he took to further his own power. 

But yet.

Sometimes. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night abruptly, having dreamt of killing; of enjoying it; of wanting to do it again. Sometimes he has to sit up until three a.m. mindlessly watching Lifetime movies until he’s too exhausted to be horrified. Sometimes he sees people on the street who look like a person he remembers killing, and he wants to hide in the house for a week to prevent such specters from finding him.

“Sometimes,” he says, “When the mood strikes me.”

Vivi laughs bitterly. Takes a drink of her champagne.

“Well, I guess that’s something, anyway. More than I expected.”

She turns back to the dance floor, although she seems not to really be watching. Crocodile pulls out his phone to get an Uber.

“Why do you think we remember?” She asks abruptly, still facing away, “Why do you think we know about it when so many others don’t?”

Crocodile laughs.

“Well, I won’t speak for you, but as for myself, it’s undoubtedly a punishment. Seems the universe does have some inherent concept of justice, after all. Who would have thought?” 

He smiles crookedly when her gaze shifts over to him, inviting her in on the joke.

“Hmmm. I don’t know about that.” 

Her eyes wander around the room, eventually fixing on a girl on the dance floor with red hair. She smiles dreamily.

“I think we came back so we could be… free, you know?” She pauses there, seeming to consider her words, “Like, I had a good life before. I had my dad, and my friends, and my people and everything. But I could never really be free. I had a responsibility to my country. I couldn’t ever just live for myself, or give the people I loved everything they deserved because I always had to give most of myself to Alabasta.

“But here I can just… live. Just  _ be _ . And I think, maybe, I remember so that I can really appreciate everything that we’ve been given now, you know? Like, I don’t think I’d be as grateful to just be normal if I didn’t know. And now I can give her everything,” she gestures to the redheaded woman, who Crocodile thinks is probably one of the Strawhats, “everything she deserves and didn’t get before, and it makes me even happier to give it, knowing what she’s been through.

“And I think--” She turns back to him abruptly, continuing passionately, “I don’t think you’re being punished. I think this is your chance to be free, too. Because, as you said, circumstances affect who people become, and now you don’t have to go through those things again. You don’t have to be bound by your pain, and what that world said you should make it into.”

She stops again, taking a deep breath. Crocodile sits, silently surprised, not having expected this turn in the conversation.

“The other thing I wanted to say to you tonight was that I forgive you. I mean, I can’t forgive you on behalf of my people or my father, or anything, but I can for myself. And I do. I thought about it a lot, and I just don’t think my anger towards you is worth holding onto. I don’t think it’s healthy, and I don’t want to be that kind of person, I decided. I doubt we’ll ever be friends or anything, but since you remember what happened before, I just wanted… to tell you it was okay.”

She smiles at him then, utterly sincere, and for a moment Crocodile understands why the people of Alabasta had cherished their princess so deeply.

“I hope you can let go of all of that. I really do.”

She puts out her hand.

“I wish you all the best, Sir Crocodile.”

He’s still for a minute, stunned.

Then he breathes deeply and reaches across the table to shake her hand, with all the gravity the act deserves.

“And I, you, Nefertari Vivi,” he says, finding himself sincere. 

She nods, decisively, then gets up and walks towards the redheaded girl as the countdown to midnight begins.

Crocodile sits in the club, lost in his own thoughts, as the new year arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> having an existential crisis brought on by ur former enemy in the club
> 
> I might hate this chapter in the morning lol idk  
> watch this space for revisions maybe
> 
> The chapter title is of course the name of the song popularly sung on New Year's Eve, which loosely translates to "Old Long Since."
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving kudos/commenting, or visiting my Tumblr (flyiing-giraffe) and reblogging the chapter post.


	5. Leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doffy and Crocodile take a vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: smoking, drinking
> 
> Want to say a quick thank you to everyone who left comments, kudos, or read the fic! This story hit 50 kudos and 39 comments this week, which is a lot considering it's pretty niche lol. Your engagement keeps me motivated! Thank you all so much!!

“This is ridiculous,” Crocodile grumbles.

He’s sitting, blindfolded, in the front seat of Doffy’s new Lamborghini. It’s Crocodile’s birthday in three days, and apparently this is necessary to maintain the surprise.

Whatever the gift is, Crocodile suspects it must be somewhat elaborate; Doffy’s been sneaking off every weekend for the past two months to work on something. Crocodile had thought it related to his work, but an elaborate birthday celebration seems to make more sense in light of this performance.

Doffy giggles.

“Don’t worry, Croco. We’re nearly there; you’ll only have to endure the indignity for a few more minutes.”

Crocodile sighs, folds his arms over his chest, and leans back in his seat, resigning himself. The car hums underneath them as they turn a corner, its overpowered engine making the movement unnecessarily dramatic.

“I still don’t understand why you bought this thing. Your old car was perfectly serviceable.”

“I mean, sure, but I’m gonna be on _national television_ now. I gotta look the part.”

Crocodile can _hear_ the smug grin he’s been wearing ever since the company signed him.

“You have a talk show, not a movie deal,” he dismisses, “Don’t be so full of yourself.”

Doffy cackles.

“You’re a lifetime too late on that one, Wani.”

The car takes a left, probably faster than is strictly necessary.

“I still think you should get a new one, too; CEOs have to look respectable,” Doffy says-- he’s been needling Crocodile about it since they got the news last week. 

Crocodile’s personally rather unenthused; it’s not as though he actually cares, or has ever cared, about real estate. He only entered the industry because he knew it was a way to make a lot of money very quickly. They’ll be able to afford a larger house now that they’ve both found success in their respective careers, which will probably be advantageous. Since Daz and Vergo returned they’ve practically moved in; if more of Doffy’s family shows up there won’t be adequate room. 

“There’s nothing wrong with the sedan.”

“It’s fucking ten years old!”

“It still runs.”

“Sure,” he snorts, “about as well as a horse with a broken leg. Put the thing out of its misery, won’t you?”

Crocodile feels the car come to a stop, and Doffy pulls the parking brake.

“We’re here!”

“Good. Can I take this stupid thing off now?”

“Not yet! Just wait a sec and I’ll walk you there.”

Crocodile huffs indignantly but acquiesces.

They’re near the ocean, on a pier or a dock. He can smell the salt on the air and hear the seagulls. He knows the sound old wood, saturated with seawater for decades, makes when you step on it. Without his sight, it almost feels like he could be back _there_.

They stop.

“You can take it off.”

Crocodile pulls the blindfold away, and finds himself on a dock in front of a pristine sailing ship.

She’s brand new, he would guess; her mast rises proudly from the deck, supporting the iconic, triangular sails. He can just spy the helm from here.

“You… rented a ship?” He hazards, thinking it the most likely explanation.

“I _bought_ you a ship,” Doffy says proudly, “Do you like her?”

Crocodile whips his head around to look at Doflamingo, eyes wide. He’s smiling, ear-to-ear.

That’s _absurd_. He _can’t_ have.

“You—you can’t be serious; this has to cost—”

“ _Do you like her_?” He interrupts.

Crocodile looks back at her. Something flutters in his chest, something he thought dead.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly.

Doffy’s smile softens.

“Good. Why don’t you look around while I go get the car squared away?”

Crocodile nods, absentmindedly, too preoccupied to really listen.

He climbs aboard, running a hand along the exterior railing as he walks the deck. It doesn’t take long; the boat is relatively small, meant to be crewed by two people, Crocodile suspects.

The entrance to the interior is in a lowered area with leather couches around the perimeter and a large table in the center, the whole thing covered by a spray hood. He takes the stairs down into the cabin and it’s just… gorgeous. There is not an element that Crocodile himself wouldn’t have chosen, down to the presumably custom finishings. The stairs land in a living area, featuring a raised table surrounded by couches, and a small electronics station in the corner. Crocodile turns left and walks through the galley-- there are bottles of wine and covered dishes of food in the refrigerator, he notes. The bedroom has a queen sized bed taking up the bulk of the space; it is flanked by three seascape windows on either side. The head is attached; beyond that, a small room containing a washer and dryer. The circle completes back in the living area.

Dazzled, he makes his way onto the deck and returns to the helm, putting a reverent hand on the wheel. He hears footsteps, and a moment later Doffy is at his back. 

“So, what do you think?”

Crocodile runs a hand over the gleaming metal slowly.

“She is perfect,” he says softly.

“Isn’t she, just?” Doffy says, delighted.

He steps around Crocodile into the lowered section and sits on one of the couches, propping his feet on the other.

“So, I’ve called your secretary and told her you’re going to be gone for a week on vacation,” He says, enumerating things on his fingers as he lists them, “I’ve hired Vergo to take the car back and look after the house, I got food for us, I packed your stuff already, and I got a license to captain this boat, in case anyone stops us. You wanna get going?”

He smiles up at Crocodile, blinding as the sunlight on the water.

Crocodile nods.

“There’s just one more thing I need you to do,” Doffy says, as Crocodile takes a seat in the cockpit.

“Hmm?”

“She doesn’t have a name yet. She won’t sail properly without one.”

Crocodile thinks for a moment. Remembers the day he pulled away from the harbor in Loguetown, surrounded by ships embarking on the same journey, filled with the same fierce, unquenchable joy in things yet to be done. Recalls one ship in particular.

“Numancia,” he says, smiling a little at Doffy.

His face twists. He looks sad, and surprised, and just a little wistful, all at once.

Crocodile knows he has missed her.

“Are you sure?” Doffy asks, quiet and fond.

“Yes.”

“Alright, then,” he says, standing and clapping his hands together, “Well, let’s get going, then, shall we?”

He comes over to adjust the navigational tools, obviously already having a heading in mind. 

“Doffy.”

He looks up from the dash.

“ _Thank you._ I love her. She’s wonderful,” Crocodile says, with all the sincerity in him.

It’s inadequate but Crocodile knows Doffy understands him, in this; having the means to return to the sea, the place which had birthed both of their hearts, is a gift beyond price.

Doffy smiles, in the way he does sometimes when they are alone together. Soft and bright and just a little sad.

“Of course. Of course, I—well, you deserve her.”

He returns to the couch, and Crocodile steers his ship out of the harbor and into the wide, welcoming sea.

***

They sail for most of the day, letting their conversations wander aimlessly and occasionally peter out. Crocodile spends the silences enjoying the familiar sounds of the ocean, the smell of the sea and the movement of the water as they pass through it. He cannot remember being this extraordinarily content.

They stop for the evening around dinnertime, and Doffy goes down into the cabin to retrieve the food, which proves to be a selection of Crocodile’s favorites. They sit at the table on the deck eating and drinking champagne as the sun sinks below the horizon, turning the sky and the water below a series of brilliant jewel tones.

“To you,” Doffy toasts, “May the next year bring all that you desire.”

When it’s dark, Doffy removes the remnants of their meal, and insists they lie on the deck, staring up at the vast blanket of stars. In the city, most of them are invisible to the naked eye, obscured by skyscrapers and light pollution. But here they are countless.

“Oh, hey! I almost forgot,” Doffy says suddenly, after a long period of silence. He sits up, rummaging around in the pockets of his coat until he produces a rectangular box. He offers it to Crocodile

“Happy birthday! Again!”

Crocodile sits up and takes the box, but can’t resist saying something about the extravagance of this celebration.

“Doflamingo, this is absurd; you’ve spent entirely too much—”

“Oh, shut up and just open it,” Doffy interrupts, waving off his objections.

Crocodile sighs and opens the box to find a tiny, perfect replica of his pet bananadile, Artemisia. He had always loved her best; she had bitten her first owner in half, and killed the men who tried to put her down. That’s when he had acquired her-- there could be no better companion for him. 

“She was your favorite, right?”

“Yes,” he says, running a finger down the scar on her tiny flank, “She had so much spirit.”

He looks up. Doffy’s smiling at him, lit softly by the deck lights.

Crocodile can’t believe he remembered. There was no way Doflamingo had seen his pets more than three or four times, and it was so long ago. For him to have been able to recall her in such detail shows a level of regard for Crocodile that he was never aware of Doffy possessing. It’s so—It’s such a perfect gift-- perhaps better than his ship, even. There is so much thought in it, so much--

God. _God_ , it hurts to be loved like this.

“Do you like it?” Doffy asks, smiling.

Crocodile grabs the collar of his shirt, yanks him forward, and kisses him.

For a moment, Doffy is perfectly still, and Crocodile wonders if he’s somehow mistaken his intent all this time. But then, of course, he responds--enthusiastically,.

Crocodile pushes him back onto the deck, bracing himself on his hands over Doffy. He means to stop so that they can have a proper discussion, so they can decide what it means and what they want, but it doesn’t seem a pressing enough reason. Each kiss is like taking a shot, and he begins to feel as though he is drugged; floaty and languid and adoring.

When they finally pause to gasp for breath, still close enough that their noses touch, Doffy giggles ecstatically and reaches up to loop his arms around Crocodile’s neck.

“ _Finally!_ Finally! Darling, I thought you were going to make me buy you an island!”

“Oh, shut up,” Crocodile says, unable to keep himself from smiling, “you could’ve said something. I’ve never known you not to pursue what you wanted.”

“I did!” He says indignantly, the tone ruined by the grin on his face, “I was flirting outrageously; you must have noticed! But I had to be sure,” he pushes some unruly strands of Crocodile’s hair back behind his ear, “You are too important. I had to be sure.”

Crocodile frowns slightly. Sits back on his heels, forcing Doffy to release him.

“We should discuss this. What we are, what we want to be.”

“I mean, I feel like it’s pretty obvious, from my end at least,” Doffy says, propping himself up on his elbows, “I wanna be with you. I wanna take you everywhere; I want to give you everything; I want to make your life the dream you didn’t know you could ask for. I _want_ you. What do you want?”

Crocodile looks out onto the darkened waters.

He does, obviously, want Doffy. This is the best possible outcome to this scenario he could have imagined-- but there is still the matter of risk. 

“I want you. I have for quite a while. Only, it’s very… It’s a big risk to take, isn’t it?” He sounds nervous to his own ear, and hates it.

“How so?”

“Well, if you are—if we become—If there’s some, some issue with it, then… then what will we be left with?”

Doffy gets up and moves to sit next to him but doesn’t make Crocodile look over, for which he is grateful.

“I don’t follow.”

“I mean if we…” He runs a hand through his hair, struggling with the right words for something he’s never experienced, “If we find we can’t stand each other. That we’re incompatible, in that way, then… then will it have been worth giving up what we have now? I…I don’t want—you are important to me, as well.”

Doffy is quiet for a moment. He sighs.

“I mean, I don’t know if it’ll be worth it. Maybe it won’t work and we’ll never speak to each other again. I can’t promise you that won’t happen.”

“And you’re--” Crocodile still doesn’t look at him, desperately not wanting to see his expression, “You find that risk acceptable?”

“No,” Doffy snorts, “It’s fucking terrifying, honestly. But I want you. There’s not—for me, there’s nothing that could conquer that. I have _always_ wanted you; for two _lifetimes_ , I have wanted you. Nothing as trivial as fear could compare.

“I’m not asking you not to worry,” he reaches out, gently taking Crocodile’s hand. Crocodile looks back over at him, and he looks so… full of hope, in that moment, “I’m asking you if it’s… something you want enough to take a leap of faith. Something important enough to you to justify that risk.”

Crocodile looks back out onto the black waves. He thinks about before. About setting out from Loguetown to do something so dangerous he might not come back, to find something that might not exist. Surely this is no greater challenge?

But this time… this time there is something to _lose_. Something that he would be forced to go on living without. Somehow, it feels like a greater, more fraught decision than setting out to find the One Piece.

“I don’t know yet,” he says, so quietly he thinks the night might have swallowed it, “let me think on it. But I--” he pauses there for a moment, unsure of what he’s going to propose now, “I want to try-- being with you, here, while we’re on this trip. Let’s see how we are, and then… then I’ll decide.” 

While they are among the waves, on the sea. Where it is safe.

“Of course,” he says, and kisses Crocodile again on the corner of his mouth, “whatever you need.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and Crocodile counts the seconds until he asks the inevitable question.

“Okay, but does like ‘trying this out’ include sex, because I was _really_ hoping--”

Crocodile shoves him back onto the deck, pinning his shoulders.

“ _Absolutely,_ it does,” he promises, smiling wickedly.

***

Crocodile spends most of the second day asleep, as neither of them got any the night before. It turns out that having multiple lifetimes of sexual experience to draw from makes for an _incredible_ time.

Doffy staggers out of bed at around eight to continue sailing, insisting that they have somewhere they need to be. Crocodile makes a token effort to get him to stay, but quickly gives up and sleeps until dinner. 

He wanders out into the galley, passing Doffy as he heads to the cabin. He catches Crocodile by the waist as they pass, kissing him briefly and saying to wake him up when Crocodile is done. Crocodile nods sleepily, pulling the previous night’s leftovers and the unfinished bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. He makes it through dinner half-asleep still, then showers and returns to the bedroom. 

Doffy is out cold, naked, on top of the covers, taking up a good two-thirds of the bed. Part of Crocodile wants to wake him, as requested, but he can’t have gotten more than a few hours of sleep total, so he instead grabs a book from the nightstand and settles into the remaining space. 

He’s reading quietly when Doffy shifts, turning over onto his back. Crocodile looks up briefly to check if he’s awake, and then stops, staring, when he sees Doffy’s new tattoo.

Doffy getting another tattoo is not, in itself, unusual; he’s constantly adding things. Rather, it’s the subject that intrigues him. Doffy has had his own Jolly Roger on his chest since before they met, but he’s never gotten anyone else’s-- presumably out of a sense of pride. But on his shoulder, the skin still red in places, is Crocodile’s.

He reaches out to run gentle fingers over the image.

It’s so _much_ , the enormity of Doflamingo’s love for him. He restrains himself, but Crocodile can tell; it bursts from the seams of him. This ship alone proves it; the weeks and weeks of dedication it took to get everything ready, the attention to detail in every element; how the seascape windows in this cabin make him feel like he’s surrounded by water, just as he was in Rain Dinners. There is thought, and love, and consideration in every inch.

It overwhelms him, like a towering wave, but Crocodile wants to welcome it.

He has been considering what Princess Nefertari suggested to him for the last nine months. Much as he is loath to admit it, he supposes she may have a point; perhaps he was being overly pessimistic in his assessment of his circumstances. And if she’s right, then… he is free to do as he wants. He is free to create something truly magnificent with the man he desires above all others. If he can just make the leap.

He moves his hand up to slowly card his fingers through Doffy’s hair and sits there, thinking, for a long, long time.

***

On Crocodile’s birthday they finally reach the destination about which Doflamingo has been so secretive. They dock the _Numancia_ in the harbor of a charming little town which conspicuously feels like an Alabastan port. The desert surrounding it is of a different kind-- mostly covered in rocks and scrub and lacking the characteristic sand dunes-- but the buildings are the same low, circular style in a variety of shades of brown.

Despite the differences, it feels… safe, to Crocodile. Inviting. As he suspects Doflamingo hoped it would. 

Doffy immediately whisks him away to a beautiful hotel, twenty-seven stories high, which towers over the nearby buildings. They drop their bags in the lavish suite he’s rented before hurrying to the spa to make the appointments Doffy has booked. They remain there for several hours, being pampered and relaxing together in large communal baths scattered with floating rose petals.

They eat at a seaside cafe for dinner then wander through an open-air market, trying the local delicacies. Eventually, Doffy takes them down to a mostly deserted beach, pulling out towels from a bag he’s been carrying. They watch another spectacular sunset and smoke some pleasantly earthy cigarettes.

Crocodile lies back on the sand and spies something moving on the beach out of the corner of his eye. He turns to get a better look, curious. After a while he sees a tiny pair of flippers pushing at the sand.

“Look,” he says, pointing. Doffy stands up and walks over slowly, crouching down next to the animal. 

“They’re baby sea turtles,” he says, delighted. 

Crocodile is content to stay where he is, but Doffy is fascinated by the little things and won’t return to the towels. He watches them push their way out of the shells and start towards the ocean. Suddenly, a brazen seagull lands on the beach near the turtles, waddling towards them with the clear intent of acquiring an easy meal. 

“Hey!” Doffy shouts at it, waving his hands, “Fuck off, bird!”

Crocodile laughs as Doffy gets up to chase the thing away across the beach-- frankly, it doesn’t look impressed, but it eventually gives up and flies back out over the ocean. Doffy returns to the babies and continues to guard them until they make it to the water.

“They might still be in danger, you know,” he teases, when Doffy comes back to him, “maybe you should follow them out there.”

“In September? No thanks,” he quips, sitting down on the towel, “I bet they’re the last ones to hatch this season. I guess they’ll probably die, anyway, but… they deserve a chance to try, hm?”

Crocodile starts to reply when Doffy points up at the now darkened sky and says,

“Look!”

Crocodile looks up to see the bright trail of a firework making its way into the sky. It reaches its apex and explodes in a circle of brilliant white lights.

“Happy birthday, Crocodile,” Doffy says. Crocodile looks over at him, eyes wide.

“Did you really--?” He begins to ask, but Doffy is nodding before he’s finished his question. 

“Do you like it?” Doffy asks, eagerly.

It is wonderful. He’s wonderful. 

This vacation has truly been one long, magnificent gift; love writ large in time, money, and countless tiny efforts. He thinks of all that has preceded this; of their years together, of their arguments and celebrations and the mundanities of their everyday lives; of the joy that Doffy has brought to him. He considers all that they have built. 

And he leaps. 

He leans close to Doffy’s ear so that he doesn’t have to shout.

“Yes. Yes, I want you; I want us, I want--” He says, bursting with the need to match the love he has been given.

Doffy interrupts him by bowling him over into the sand and kissing him, ecstatically, as the fireworks dance in celebration overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there was only one BED
> 
> Some references for this chapter:  
> \- Doffy's ship is called the Numancia Flamingo (technically Croco should have named it Flamingo but I think he'd rather die lol)  
> \- The ship is heavily based on the Oyster 565, if you wanna look it up  
> \- If you google "Pink Lamborghini" the video of the Aventador that comes up is what I'm picturing for Doffy's car
> 
> PLEASE READ!!! I just want to let you guys know that the next chapter will probably be delayed; it has always been the longest chapter of the story by far, accounting for over 1/6 of the original word count. I want to give it the time it needs to be edited, so I expect to post it later next week. Sorry to disappoint, but I mostly edit on the weekends and I don't want to be in a rush.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it please consider commenting/leaving kudos, or going to my Tumblr and reblogging the chapter post. 
> 
> [Tumblr](https://flyiing-giraffe.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/flyinggiraffe2) (This isn't set up yet, but if you want to talk to me on there I'll check it periodically)


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